


The Spark Sets Fire to Thedas

by OtakuElf



Series: Fear, Faith, and Friendship [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Kirkwall, Mages, NaNoWriMo, Templars, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative ending to Dragon Age 2, with Anders free from Justice, and Marethari surviving.  What if Justice and Anders did not blow up the Chantry?  The fire would still burn, Meredith Stannard was just enough over the edge...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merrill Comes Crashing Down

**Author's Note:**

> I will not start writing this until Friday, November 1st, 2013 for National Novel Writing Month.
> 
> But wanted to get the whole business set up ahead of time. While I'm still coherent and all...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We live with the results our choices. Sometimes the realization alone of repercussions can break us.

Anders was Anders now. Just. It still surprised him to wake up alone. Dragging himself off the cot, that sensation of individuality always surprised him, was even greater than the slightly more space in the cubby now that Sebastian had returned to the Chantry, though that had been months ago. Edging his way out in the darkness the mage slipped behind the curtain hiding the chamber pot. Looking down at the raggedy state of his night shirt, he ducked back to find the wash stand, starting with hands, then pulling said shirt over his head to do a more thorough bit of cleaning.

“A lovely sight to begin the day with,” Isabela purred from somewhere behind him.

The moment of statue stillness, then the self described “insane apostate” turned to find the shadow form of a pirate queen perched on the back of his desk chair. Calling fire to the lanterns instead of light, deliberately pulling blond, straggling hair back into a leather tie, Anders turned away. He took up the cloth, warmed the water with a word, scrubbed the soap to lather and began to wash slowly and deliberately. “What do you want, Isabela?”

“I spent the night with Merrill.” The reply was short, and not Isabela's usual purr.

“What’s going on with Merrill?” The question was equally short, though Anders had several ideas. “And why you and not Hawke?”

“Hawke was there too. And Marethari.”

Well that was interesting news. “Marethari came to Hightown?” Anders kept his tone neutral.

Isabel sighed. “Marethari came to Merrill. I am not sure if it helped. Guilt does such terrible things to one.”

“Guilt? Marethari’s guilt? Or Merrill’s?” Anders had suspicions of course, but Isabela often chose the round about way to dealing with feelings. 

A noise of disgust, before the pirate spoke, “As if I care about Marethari’s feelings, Anders. Do be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Anders forced amusement into the word, “You are here to tell me that Merrill is drowning in a wealth of shame over her dance with the Pride Demon. Marethari tried to blackmail Merrill, who is like a DAUGHTER,” it became a shout, “to her... into killing the demon to prevent it from possessing Merrill. Into killing someone who was like a Mother to Merrill. Marethari is a self-righteous piece of WRONG. She set Merrill up to be separate from her people to begin with! Do not ask me to be rational or calm when it comes to that Keeper's involvement in what happened on the mountain!

"The rest of us? We're not clan! We're not kith nor kin. Sebastian, who is a blighted Chantry brother from Starkhaven, worked with a Dalish blood mage and a dream walker, a half-blood mage who lives in Tevinter to free me. Marethari is lucky as the Void she was freed too! Which went well enough, because it gave Fenris something to kill. Why are we all still even alive, Isabela?”

A silence, then another sigh. “Because of those nasty unreasonable feelings we all seem to have for each other, Anders. Hawke and Fenris and Sebastian have kept us alive. Merrill and Feynriel and Justice saved you. And now Merrill is falling apart. It’s as though she’s caught in a tide and rushing for the rocks. She’s already lost her mast and the rigging is in tatters. Hawke is her helmsman and she's not paying attention to him. Anders, I can only help so much. I’m not a mage. I can’t possibly understand what she’s going through.”

Concentrate on rinsing, getting all the soap off. Dry with the threadbare towel. Pick up the hair brush. “I don’t know what she’s going through either, Isabela. Just because I’m a mage doesn’t mean I understand Merrill. She’s Dalish. She’s female. She’s a bloodmage.” Anders slipped the leather tie around his wrist and began to brush his hair far more elaborately than his wont.

“Anders,” it was the most humble he’d heard Isabela since Hawke had given her the Tome of Koslun, “I think you understand what she’s going through. What are the names of the Templars that Justice ripped apart?”

Acid backing up his throat from an empty stomach. “I know I’m a murderer. I don’t have to remember their names.”

“But you do. Don’t you?” Isabela could be gentle, or rough, sly or… well, not innocent for a very long time, subtle or straight forward. Now she was careful. No hint of bravado.

Anders gritted his teeth and sniffed. Snot and tears first thing in the morning. Wonderful. “Yes. I do. But I don’t give them the honor of naming. They’re in the void with the Maker now. Let them answer to his call, not mine.”

“She just stares into space, Anders. She’ll eat if we prod her, she’ll use the jakes if we take her there. She hasn’t slept. She’s sick. You’re the healer.” Her voice was filled with tears, and when Anders finally looked at the woman he could take in the dark marks around her eyes, the lines from lack of sleep. Isabela caring about another. It was a wonder.

“When was the last time you saw Fenris?” was not the question he had meant to ask.

“Fenris stopped by last night. He wouldn’t see Merrill, but he made me go out into Hawke’s garden and breathe. Hawke is trying to take care of everything, Anders. I couldn’t leave the two of them there to take Fenris to bed.”

The snort of laughter was not graceful, nor kind. “It’s not all about sex, Isabela,” Anders laughed comment was painful.

An exaggerated look of surprise, hands spread in pantomime on either side of her tired face, and Isabela said, “What an amazing thing to hear from you.”

Anders sounded tired, even after a full night’s sleep, “It hasn’t been all about sex for at least ten years now, Isabela. I don’t know if it ever can be again.”

“Wish it were that easy, Anders. Will you go to her?” Tenacious, Isabela certainly was.

A nod. “Let me finish waking up, Isabela, and then I’ll go and see what I can do for Hawke,” Anders emphasized, before going on, “and Merrill.”

A nod from her, a leap from the chair, and the rogue vanished into the shadows at the other end of the clinic. Anders didn’t even hear the rough door scrape open or closed. “Tea,” he said into the emptiness of the large room, “If I’m going to be an adult, I want some tea.”

In response his stomach growled out in no uncertain terms that tea would not be enough. “Tea and porridge,” he said loudly, “because it’s good for you. And Orana won’t be awake yet to make rolls, you bottomless pit!”

Orana had made rolls. Orana had made rolls, sliced fruit, brewed tea, and skimmed cream to serve with all the other things. Orana’s smile as Bodahn led Anders into the kitchen was small, but it relieved Anders to see that bright expression there.

“Break your fast first, Serrah Anders, and I will let Serrah Hawke know you’re here,” came from Bodahn.

Anders took one large mouthful of melting flaky roll, savoring it before swallowing and taking an equally flavorful drink of the steeped herbs Merrill had grown in Hawke’s garden. He looked gravely at Orana. “What have you tried?” he asked.

Orana jumped. Anders said, “Don’t try to fool me, Orana. You would have tempted her with all her favorites. Has she eaten any of them?”

Orana’s sigh was a soughing like a tiny timid wind. “She eats, but she tastes nothing. And she eats only what Master Hawke makes her eat,” the Elvhen woman said.

“Is she sleeping?” Anders was betting not.

“She closes her eyes. Then when nobody says anything for a while she opens them again and stares at the fire. I don't know what she does when none of us are watching.” Orana shrugged.

“Hawke?” Orana had her favorites, but Hawke was the Master. It embarrassed the big rogue mightily. Anders had to ask, "How is he?"

“Serrah Hawke,” it was carefully said this time, “is not eating!” and that was the greatest tragedy in the world, so far as Orana was concerned.

“Anders!” that great booming voice was attempting to be quiet and considerate. It echoed in the large, square kitchen.

Anders nodded at Orana, who busied herself with a cup for Hawke, and a plate that included not only fruit and rolls, but sausage as well. Anders said, “Eat! Healer’s Orders, Hawke!” and the blond mage stuffed another piece of roll into his mouth.

“But, Anders, Merrill is,” the big man began only to run into Anders’ upraised hand, as he was told, “Eat first. Talk later. Merrill needs you to be alive.”

Grumbling, “A little bit of fasting is not going to kill me. Orana? I know it is you putting him up to this.”

Anders let loose a huge yawn, not entirely unforced. “I can’t function if I am dead from starvation, Hawke. Neither can you. Have you slept? I thought not. Eat.”

Anders applied himself to the continued breaking of his fast. Hawke began to eat as well. Orana sparkled at Anders from behind Hawke’s back. There was sound, the clink of metal implements against the thick pottery plates that Hawke preferred. Birds called in the orchard of Hawke’s garden, waking each other up to declare, “this is mine. Mine!” and could be heard through the window Orana had thrown open.

“You’re a healer, Anders,” Hawke mumbled after a while, “You will help Merrill, won’t you?”

“Eat!” Anders pointed with his knife at the second plate Orana was sliding in front of the big rogue. Rude, but he and Hawke were beyond that now. When the elven woman placed one in front of him as well, Anders began to work his way through the food without speech. As a former Tevene slave, Orana knew what was needed in a mage’s household when there was work to be done. Some things were the same. Others, so very not. Anders refused to think of blood while eating.

When the comfortable fullness was reached Anders stood, “Orana, will you please bring some Valerian tea? To the garden, I think.

"No, Hawke, you stay here. Or rather, you go to bed. Merrill’s in your room? Well, Orana and Bodahn will find you another room to take a nap.” Ignoring Hawke’s complaints Anders found his own way up the stairs to Merrill, sitting uncomfortably on a chair looking into the small flickering fire.

The room was stuffy. Anders threw open the windows and looped the curtains around hooks set in the walls to either side of the frame. Orana had done the same when they’d brought Sebastian back here after the Chantry brother's abduction. Looking about the enormous red velvet room, Anders remembered vividly sitting in the overly stuffed chairs, Fenris crouched in the chair next to the bed with the sleeping Sebastian’s larger human hand on his smaller Elvhen one.

Right. Anders went into the adjoining bathing room and began to fill the stone tub. Heating the water was a pleasure. Using magic for his own use and desire was a joy. Anders reminded himself to feel joyful in his gift. 

Like now. Anders damped the fire with a lovely little blast of ice. Merrill flinched, but did not otherwise move. “Come on,” Anders pulled the delicate looking elf to her feet, “Time to get cleaned up. Then we’ll go to your garden for our talk.” Words specifically chosen. Merrill didn’t fight him, not even when he started pulling her clothes off and folding them neatly by the bath. “In you go!”

There was nothing improper in the bathing. There was an adult, and a child. Yes, Anders wanted to see how much Merrill would put up with from him, but there is also some measure of comfort to be had in being in care. Anders knew that situations could be reversed, and that their relative sizes, large human mage and smaller Elvhen mage, had nothing to do with their roles now.

“Let me know if it’s too hot,” though Anders had deliberately set the temperature to relax her muscles. He didn’t speak while he washed her. Gentle, competent, careful not to touch the woman sexually, Anders left the hair for last. Scrubbing Merrill’s dark, short hair, massaging the scalp beneath, leaving ears strictly alone, the mage finished off with clean water to rinse. He tried not to give a breath of relief when she tilted her head back under the water, eyes closed tight to allow the wash of it across her small, sharp face.

Orana brought him clothes, and together they toweled Merrill dry and dressed the former Keeper’s First, plain and comfortable and warm. Anders picked the woman up, slight, but tough, and when Merrill put her arms around his neck, face against his shoulder, gave her a slight tightening of his hold in response. He carried his small burden out, following Orana’s busy form as she pulled doors open before and shut them softly behind before running to the next.

Hawke had been put to bed by Bodahn. Anders could hear them arguing in the distant guest room. All the way to the garden door in the kitchen it was quiet, with Hawke’s massive mabari giving them only a woofing snort before putting his head back down on paws the size of dinner plates. Anders walked to Merrill’s garden, where the more delicate herbs were carefully covered from the cold night air. Picking a spot in the middle of the huge patch of lemon balm - couldn't hurt that accidentally - he sat, Merrill on his lap, but with her arms still around his neck and head still resting against his heart. “Are you ready for some tea?” the taller mage kept his voice soft.

That dark head lifted and took a deep breath. Orana brought a stoneware pot and two thick cups, which she set, rather helplessly, in the midst of the balm before leaving. “Valerian?” that normally clear fluting voice was cracked.

“Yes. Just that.” No explanation.

A nod, and she allowed him to feed it to her. Small sips of the warm, unsweetened liquid. When it was done her head went back to its resting place. Anders could see the tip of her pointed ear sticking out from that short, black, straight hair. “I don’t want to sleep,” she said.

“I will keep watch.” Anders thought she would understand. Here, among her herbs on the edge of Hawke’s formal garden, in the center of Hightown of Kirkwall, as well as there in the Fade.

A sob escaped. It was joined by another, then more. They weren’t loud, wracking exhortations of grief. It was weeping, soft no less powerful, no less grieving. They trailed off, the sobs, and the breathing grew steadier, calmer, and then Anders sat, in the middle of the patch of lemon scented leaves, holding the sleeping Merrill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day one of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). In which I will attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words.
> 
> Please do let me know if something seems off, so that I can correct it. Please let me know if I make a continuity error, or factual or technical mistake. Thanks for everyone's support! You all are great!
> 
> Your comments and critiques are what give me ideas, so please do share them.


	2. Merrill and the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirror Mirror...

_Eluvian_. Merrill’s Magic Mirror. They’d joked about it for years. Anders had never seen it. Isabela had spoken of it. Hawke had helped Merrill obtain the _Arulin’Holm_ , so he told Anders now, but it hadn’t worked out for Merrill. How could a wood working implement fix a mirror? Or magic glass? The mirror still would not work, and now the demon that had promised Merrill "aid" was destroyed. 

Good riddance, Anders thought wholeheartedly as he followed Hawke down to the Alienage and Merrill’s old rooms. She still kept them. The faces of the residents around the great tree told him why. They knew Merrill’s name. They called to her as she led the way, shouting jokes to the big, bearded human behind her. Space was tight in the Alienage, but no one would take Merrill’s place until she actually vacated it. Merrill was not ready to give up this place in the society of the alienage.

Looking about the main court, around the _vhenadahl_ , in the watery sunshine Anders felt an itch. Something was not quite right, but it was slight enough that Anders couldn’t find exactly what. It was not that the mage was a stranger here. The Dark Town Healer was known throughout the hidden bits and pieces of Kirkwall. There were Elvhen in the tunnels of Darktown, and they were related to those here in the Alienage. It wasn’t the people here that made him uncomfortable. Was this new? Or had he just not noticed it before?

Merrill was chattering. Hawke was fondly taking in every word. Anders was jittering. The scruffy blond mage caught Varric Tethris’ eye and received a saucy wink. “What’s the problem, Blondie? You’re jumpier than Aveline at a Hightown ball.”

“Do you ever get the feeling that something is not quite right?” Anders scraped a hand across the back of his neck, “Like when we were in the Deep Roads?”

Varric began to search the shadows and crevices, pulling Bianca down and ready. “Darkspawn?” it was low, just between them.

Anders looked startled. “Yes. Varric, that’s exactly it. Not what I was thinking, but that’s more likely. Oh, don’t worry, I’d be able to tell if there were actual spawn here. That sort of flavor.”

“Flavor?” the dwarf made a face, “Not to my taste, Blondie.”

Merrill was opening the piecemeal wooden door. “No lock. Nothing to steal but the rats, I’m afraid.”

There was a rush of wrongness rolling out from the open doorway. “Hawke,” Anders warned him quietly, and the two blades were pulled smoothly from the scabbards on the big man’s back.

Merrill’s face was puzzled. “Whatever is it, Anders?” She peeked through the darkened doorway, before speaking again. "I don’t hear anyone in there. Not even the rats.”

“It,” Anders voice was steady with effort, “feels bad. Something. In there, something feels wrong.” Then noticing Merrill’s face, struck, as if he had stuck a knife in her heart, “It’s not you, Merrill. It’s not blood magic, either. Something else.”

And being the big bad Grey Warden, the mage supposed it would have to be him going in there to combat it. Except that he was a mite slow, wasn’t he, and Hawke was already dashing in there. “Hawke! Wait!”

“Too late, Blondie,” and Varric, Maker bless the man (or would that be The Stone?) was already following the rogue into Merrill’s rooms.

Merrill hovered, like a small bee, anxious at the door, waiting for him. Not because she was afraid. Anders knew that Merrill was afraid of things, of course, but most of those were people. “Alright, Merrill, let’s go,” and pulling his staff under his arm he walked into the place, cold like most of the stone housing in Kirkwall, and looked round at the fragments of furniture, the dust sifting from the ceiling, his friends looking at him with puzzled faces. 

The feeling, cold and sickly, came from a smaller chamber, off the back of the main. And there it was that Anders saw what could only be The _Eluvian_. Shaking his head at the overt capitalization, he walked closer, still not touching it. It - that could be capitalized - was a wooden frame, marred by sword marks along the sides, and filled in the center with dark pieces of glass fit into a mosaic. The shards of glass were carefully fitted together, and it must have taken Merrill long patient hours to set them side by side into the frame. Anders could see splashes of blood along those edges. They must have been sharp enough to cut regardless of the Dalish woman’s blood magic. 

“Merrill,” leaning forward his hair dislodged and fell into his face. Shaking it back and absentmindedly tying it with the leather piece he caught before it landed on the floor, Anders looked at the _Elvhen_ , “We’re going to sit here, and you’re going to tell me everything you have done with this piece. Hawke, you and Varric don’t need to stay for this. It will take some time.”

“I don’t understand, Blondie?” from Varric as Hawke sheathed his overly large blades, “A moment ago you were crawling out of your skin. Now you want to sit and chat with Daisy?”

A deep sigh. Then a deeper one. “It’s the taint, Varric. The mirror is filled with it. I can feel the pull of it from out in the courtyard.”

Hawke surprised him, “When we were in the Grey Warden’s prison the taint started to take you over. Is it safe for you and Merrill to be here? Is it safe at all for Merrill? Why hasn’t she died from the taint by now?”

Amber eyes looked into Merrill's green ones. “I don’t know why you’re still alive, Merrill. This is an extraordinarily dangerous magical item to begin with. The taint - that just makes it so much the worse. Danger I don’t have an issue with, you know. It’s the taint that is the problem. Well,” and now he tossed his head back and forth, “the blood magic and all.”

Those delicate Elvhen lips twisted into a grimace, but Hawke snorted out a laugh that caught her attention. Heart shining from huge green eyes, Hawke’s Ferelden blue twinkled back. “Alright,” Hawke boomed, “Varric, we’ll go out and tell stories to the children around the tree. Anders, you find out what you need. But we’ll discuss this back at the mansion, not here in the cold of the Alienage. Got it?”

“What’s wrong with the Hanged Man?” Varric protested as he and Bianca followed the rogue from the room.

“If I’m going to pay for food, I’d rather have Orana’s stew than whatever Corff is serving,” they heard Hawke grumble as the pair gave them privacy.

Anders looked into the dark glass. It was non-reflective. He couldn’t see himself, and he could not see Merrill, though he felt her stand beside him. She didn’t feel tainted to him, like calling to like. Sitting on the dusty floor in front of the mirror the mage remembered hearing Hawke’s complaint, “She sits on the rug in front of that mirror, and I don’t think she’s moved for days!”

“Let us start with what I see, shall we?” Anders slanted a look sideways, “Then you can fill me in from there?”

Merrill assented, folding herself down onto the small throw rug on the floor next to Anders. “Did you want some of the rug, Anders?”

Anders shook his head, looking back at the _eluvian_. “This is a item that is at least one thousand years old. At the very least. I can see preservative spells on the wood. Otherwise it wouldn’t have lasted nearly this long, even ironwood.

Other than the preservative spellwork, the frame is non-magical. It just holds the glass. It is glass, for all that it doesn’t reflect,” and Anders held his hand out just close to the surface of the mirror. “Cold, radiating off the glass. I can feel the taint in it, wanting to spread, to be free of its imprisonment. The mirror’s magic is in every aspect of the glass, not just something cast on the surface.”

Merrill was listening carefully, nodding at each point. Anders went on, “The spell is some form of entropy. Not so much my field, Merrill, so I can’t tell you exactly the type of spell beyond the school.

"And that is interesting. I hadn’t really thought of entropy as being an aspect of a transport spell before. You’re sure that this was used to move people places?”

Merrill nodded, “Theron saw places in this mirror. Your Warden Commander. I spoke once to Sebastian about it. I think what Theron saw was the old _Elvhen_ homeland, _Arlathan_. Buried by the Tevinters so many ages ago.”

Anders hummed thoughtfully, “Could it have been a communications device rather than for travel? Perhaps they spoke to each other through it? Or saw things they wished in the glass?”

“How would entropy be useful for any of those things?” Merrill wondered.

“I’m just thinking that the only reason you are still alive,” Anders told her severely, “Is because the entropy is somehow fighting the taint. The taint likes blood, I think. Darkspawn drink it, eat the bodies of the creatures they slay. Even though they don’t need to. The taint can keep one of those things alive forever. Hungry. Waiting.

"I think that there was something we found years ago though. Something that the Grey Wardens were doing. Hawke found a packet of their communications and made certain they got back to the Wardens. There was something there about blood and the taint.”

“What was it?” Merrill’s interest in anything that might have to do with the mirror was still obvious.

“I don’t know!” Anders ran his fingers through the shaggy blond mane, dislodging the leather tie once again, “I can’t remember. It wasn’t much. But if the Grey Wardens are doing research into this, it might be something we can use.”

“Here,” Merrill knelt up beside the tall human and gathered the locks of graying blond hair, beginning to braid.

“Thank you,” Anders sighed. “Merrill, this can’t stay here unguarded. I don’t want it near any of us either. I’m not talking about blood magic or the innate power of the piece. It’s the taint. It’s a problem. 

"I’ll also need you to tell me everything you can about it. We’ll write it down and then,” a hesitation, “There are some people we can get in touch with to ask questions.”

“Humans? Grey Wardens?” Merrill’s busy fingers continued to put up Anders hair, but her tone was doubtful, “This is a Dalish thing, Anders.”

“The Dalish don’t write much down, Merrill,” Ander chided her, “Or you’d have found that by now, wouldn’t you? Do you know any mages in the Dalish clans who would be willing to work together on this? Much less with humans? Because this is a concern for us all, not just for the _Elvhen_.”

“No,” that word was short, sorrowful. “They won’t speak to me. Wouldn’t, even if I had Marethari’s backing. Everyone is so jealous of the lost arts. It was one of the reasons why I refused to throw this away,” and she gestured those thin small hands, scarred with tiny white spots all along the palm and fingers, “Even after Theron tried to destroy it.”

Fear rose in his stomach, a lurch and a chill that spread along the tall, tired man’s spine. “Part of this,” he said slowly, trying to mask his fear, “will be getting in touch with the Warden Commander. We need to know what exactly it was that he saw. What happened to him. And what is going on with those experiments.”

“You don’t want to talk to Theron, do you?” Merrill moved to the other side and continued.

“I don’t want to go back, Merrill. I,” Anders really should just get the entire group together and say this once more, “I’m wanted for murder, Merrill. If the Grey Wardens know where I am, they may come and take me back. I may be tried by their tribunal. Theron may not be able to help me. Or may not choose to save me again.”

Merrill made a noise like a small cat, “Psh. Hawke won’t let them take you if you don’t want to go, Anders. It is that simple.”

“I don’t think anything is just that simple, Merrill. But thank you,” they would never been the best of friends. Anders knew what he was. What Merrill was. But right now they were getting along, and her support was gratefully received.

Merrill finished with a pat. She moved to kneel in front of the mage, careful not to touch the _eluvian_. “Anders,” she took his head in her so small hands and tilted it to look her in the eyes, "We are family. Hawke will take care of us.”

The older mage, aware of the years, the brokenness, the taint, and all the many ways in which he was so much not worth the time of someone like Hawke, leaned forward and rested his head against Merrill’s forehead. “I hope it will be enough, Merrill.”

“Together we are stronger, Anders,” Merrill sounded confident.

Anders nodded. Sighing, when had he started doing so much of that? “Back to work, Merrill. Tell me from the beginning. What have you done with this _eluvian_.” The morning stretched to afternoon, and evening before they were done. When Anders could set up wards around the mirror, shrouding it with the bedding from Merrill’s old, unused cot, and follow Hawke, head of the family and leader of their motley clan, back to his nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Anders not notice this?


	3. Father Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke decided to be proactive. With a little help.

Chairs never did seem built to hold someone like him. Hawke wedged himself further into what everyone else called “comfortable chairs” and tried to relax against the cushioned upholstery. Worst case scenario would be if Merrill came back with the dog about now and decided to cuddle. Merrill climbing into his lap generally gave the dog ideas. Wincing at the muscle memory of the collapsing sofa, _Elvhen_ and dog combined weight smothering him, Hawke wriggled into the confines of the seat. 

Shift, would that help? No, hadn’t worked before. What had Varric quoted, “A being who repeats actions expecting different outcomes is the definition of insanity.”

“Or a mage,” Anders had quipped. Hawke remembered Fenris’ bark of a laugh in response. Sebastian’s shake of his head. Truthfully, much as the man strove to do his best for Kirkwall, Hawke's home even now that his mother was dead, it was those intimates, the people who had become his family in whose service the big rogue felt bound.

Why had these incredibly talented people ended up in a backwater like Kirkwall? The easy way out would be to say the Maker had sent them. Sebastian being versed with Chantry doctrine, Hawke knew, would disagree. “That is not how the Maker works, Hawke,” all severe tones, with a laugh sparkling in green blue eyes so different from Hawke’s own Ferelden blue.

Or might the question be, how had Hawke ended up here as well? Religious discussions with a Chantry brother? When Hawke’s family had been so careful all of his life to avoid notice of the church of the Maker and Andraste? They were believers, but tended to stay far away from houses of worship, zealots, and officials of the church.

Varric and Isabela were the only two who refused to be involved in any topic of a religious bent. Granted any speech with Merrill tended to be confused and confusing, what with all of the Dalish deities, sudden requests for reasons behind Chantry traditions, and spirits, or as his love called them “The First Children”, a habit she’d picked up from Anders and Sebastian. Aveline had very solid beliefs that were affected by but not identical with her Templar first husband’s. Fenris was the most likely of them all, well other than Merrill, to question. Hawke tended to like practicing his faith, enjoying the rituals. It was the stance on mages that he resented.

Maker, Hawke was deeply grateful. It was such a rich part of him now, though he was uncertain to whom. If the Maker or his bride, Andraste, did not dip their fingers directly into the events of this world, then should Hawke thank the Maker for those wonderful outcomes? Equally so, the rogue could not curse the Maker for the horrors he had seen, the evil done to his mother? The Maker had not done any of those. Leandra would not have countenanced that cursing in any case.

This feeling of gratitude remained throughout. Hawke had survived battling the Arishok, that demon possessed rock abomination in the Deep Roads, and the giant Dalish, or _Elvhen_ anyway, stick creature. That last one twice. He had a home here, with the love of his life, and friends gathered about him. Bodahn and Sandal and Orana. Life was comfortable. Well, aside from the bits with giant spider guts and killing abominations.

And that was it, wasn’t it? More abominations were showing up. More blood mages. More demons. Something was coming. It wasn’t even just what they had learned at the Grey Warden’s prison that the area close by them was cursed through association with Tevinter and blood magic and the original mage who strove to walk the Golden City. That yet another monstrous creature had been bound in the courtyard of that ancient and abandoned place. Well, abandoned by all but the Carta and the Darkspawn. Or that Sundermount was crawling with revenents and oddities. 

This city and it’s circle were built on slavery and blood magic, built to increase the power of blood magic. Below even Darktown and the sewers were the Deep Roads with ancient Dwarven ruins beyond the memory of Orzammar. Overwhelming. Add to those Elthina, whom Hawke did not trust no matter how much he liked Sebastian, and Orsino and Meredith Stannard, who had Bethany in their clutches.

Bethany. His sister, and the only living blood kin that Hawke had left. Maker, he was thinking of blood in everything now. Hawke mused that all in his life at this moment would be happy if Bethany were only free and here at home with him. That thought was pleasant. And it entirely ignored the fact that Bethany loved circle life. She might not particularly care for the Gallows, but she loved teaching. She loved learning in a way she’d not been able to since father had died. Bethany had made a home for herself, and planned on staying for the rest of her life. But what kind of life?

Any children Bethany bore in the Gallows would be taken away from her. He’d had no letters from her intimating that she’d met anyone special or fallen in love, but Hawke wanted her to be happy. As happy as Hawke was with Merrill. Not that Hawke and Merrill would have children. Merrill refused to discuss the subject. It looked as though the Amell line was ending at Gareth and Bethany Hawke after all. 

As uncomfortable as these thoughts were, the chair was more awful yet. Hawke pried himself out of the torture implement made of wood and cloth and horse hair, shoved it away and leaned over the mantlepiece to warm himself by the tidily organized fire. Sandal was very precise with his fires. 

Merrill and the dog rushed in with a breath of outside air. “Hello, love,” Hawke bent over to kiss that wind touched face, as the dog wuffed at his legs, then pattered off to find Orana and his water dish. 

“You look gloomy, _ma vhenan_ ,” and the fragile looking light of his love held pale hands out to the warmth of the fire, “Were you trying to sit in that chair again? We really could have one made to fit you, Gareth Hawke, rather than making do.”

Hawke grinned, “I should have gone for a walk with you two!”

The Dalish woman who shared his home nodded vigorously, “It was a good walk. We met Fenris on the way back from the Chantry gardens. He didn’t say a word, but walked us back to the door. Then left. He is odd.”

“Merrill,” Hawke reproached, “The Chantry gardens?”

“They did not say ‘no’, _Lethellin_ ,” a cocky grin on that gamin face, “Now, what were you thinking of?”

“The future. Trying to puzzle out what will happen. How to keep us safe. How to keep you and Anders safe, since I can’t help Bethany,” Hawke was trying not to sound self-pitying.

“Isabela says her ship will carry us all when the city goes up in flames!” it was said cheerfully.

Hawke’s jaw dropped, “Isabela thinks the city will go up in flames?”

“Eventually, my heart. She has plans, she says. Fenris and Anders with her in the Captain’s cabin, you and I will sleep in the first mate’s cabin, Sebastian and Varric will share a berth, Aveline and Donnic in another, Bethany gets her own, and the Grand Cleric will have a small, tiny really, room down in the hold,” Merrill gave the pert, wholly innocent smile she used when giving any one of them a prod.

“Elthina? She’s giving Elthina a space on her imaginary ship?” Hawke’s deep voice cracked.

Same smile, with a vigorous nod. “Mind you, I don’t see her being able to drag Aveline and Donnic away from their duty, but these are the plans she’s made. And her ship is not so imaginary. It will be available when she needs it.”

“Why,” Hawke was afraid to ask, “is she planning on taking Elthina?”

“Ooh, well. Sebastian won’t go without Elthina. Fenris won’t leave without Sebastian being safe. Isabela won’t set sail without Fenris on board. Simple. Yes?” Merrill could only hold her composure for a short bit, then broke down into a giggle.

“Maker save us from a woman in love,” muttered the huge rogue.

“I know you are meaning Isabela and not me, _ma vhenan_ ,” and she stood on bare toes to slip a kiss onto his nose. Her lips felt cold.

“Hmm,” Hawke hummed, “Well, I was not referring to Elthina.”

“Do you think it will happen any time soon, Hawke?” Merrill perched on the abandoned chair, “That we will have to run away with Isabela?”

Hawke took his place on the floor, leaning backward against his lover’s knees and staring into the fire. “I think we’re safe for right now, Merrill.”

“But not for always,” it was uncommonly grave.

“No, not for always. There was another deputation today asking me to take on Viscount. They are fools if they think that the Knight Commander is going to appoint me to that position. Well, I say appoint, because no one will become Viscount without support from the Gallows. We’ve butted heads enough that Meredith does not trust me. And she shouldn’t. If I took on the role of Viscount, my first duty would be to wean the city from depending on the Gallows for leadership,” his great shaggy head leaned back onto Merrill’s bare knees.

“I would be in the way, for one thing,” Merrill pointed out obviously, “And your sister being in the Gallows… if Meredith has avoided using her as a hostage so far, it’s only because she doesn’t want to be blatant about it.”

“And Anders. He says that the presence of Templars in Darktown looking for apostates has increased. Last week he and a family of four hid in the back of his living quarters while Lirene convinced a patrol that the bandage rolling party filling up the clinic was all part of her charity work for Blight displaced Fereldans. Two of the midwives gave them a piece of their mind as well, right before delivering a baby in front of them without magical aide. One of them tried to conscript the Templars to help.” Hawke obviously found that last bit amusing.

Merrill began to card her slender fingers through the dark mess of hair, “Can’t Anders move? I know it’s convenient to us, just below the cellars here, but if they keep visiting the clinic, isn’t it dangerous for him to stay?”

Hawke tilted his mop of hair so that she could reach more, “I think it has to do with the light and a water pipe from Hightown. He needs both.”

The rogue could not see her nod, nor the thoughtful look on that delicate face. “Hawke, could you get information from Varric about what might be going on in the city?”

“Sure. If anyone would have information, it would be Varric,” the man pushed his head back against her stilled hands. When she did not comply he sat up, turned to look at her. “You think I should start making preparations myself, don’t you?”

“It,” Merrill hesitated, her voice quiet when it came, “might not hurt.”

A polite cough of disbelief, much like what he’d used with Leandra, “Might not hurt?”

“No,” Merrill started massaging his scalp, “You have advisors, Champion of Kirkwall, use them, Marethari would use the elders of the clan to make long range preparations. Of course, our Halla died, and we ended up here. Waiting. I don’t know what her current plans are.”

“Elders of our clan? Meaning?” Hawke knew that Merrill could hear his eyebrows raising even lost in memory as she was.

“Who are the city elders?” Merrill asked thoughtfully, still rubbing.

Hawke’s voice was flat, “Grand Cleric Elthina, Orsino, and Knight Commander Meredith Stannard.”

“You never do use Orsino’s title?” Merrill questioned.

“Fine, First Enchanter Orsino of the Kirkwall Circle in the Gallows,” the voice still flat.

A giggle bubbled up out of Merrill. Hawke asked, “What?”

“I was just thinking,” Merrill fluted, “that Elthina is probably the only one of those three who knows somewhat of the things that have been going on.”

“Well, I,” that pronoun was emphasized, “didn’t tell her.”

Merrill was still laughing, “No, I think that was Sebastian and Anders!”

“You know,” the verb was also emphasized, “that it was!”

“Well, Sebastian is a prince. As well as a Chantry brother. And Anders is a Grey Warden. And Varric is a member of the Merchant’s Guild. And Isabela is a captain. Wouldn’t they be your council of elders?” Merrill was using what she considered to be her reasonable tone of voice.

Hawke said thoughtfully, “What an odd way to talk about my drinking buddies.”

“Friends, Hawke,” Merrill slid her arms down around his neck, “Are there to ask for advice. They come to you for advice. Ask them.”

“Even when you already know what they’re going to say?” Hawke grumbled.

Merrill gave him a squeeze, “You can’t know. You really can’t until you talk to them. And I know you’re tired of dealing with all of this being Kirkwall’s Champion. Plus, what is Justice doing? We’ve heard nothing from Anders about him since they were separated.”

“You could find him for me, couldn’t you?” Hawke ran a sword calloused finger along the arms around his neck.

“Could,” Merrill admitted, “But Justice is really not very fond of me. Best leave it to Bethany, if you can get a note to her, or to Anders.”

“Anders it is,” Hawke said, avoiding the thought of Bethany performing magic in front of any of the Gallows' Templars. Even Cullen, for whom Hawke had a passing regard. 

Merrill suggested, “Tomorrow. Before the city blows up again?”

Hawke agreed. Then he took his lover up to bed. Tomorrow would be time enough.


	4. Mediator

Sharp voices, angry tones, vicious accusations. Some things never changed. Or had they? Focus. Missing a moment of the bickering could lead to intimations of favoritism, but it was difficult to keep listening to such repetition. How many years had Elthina been listening to rage and hostility? Decades. Had it gotten worse recently? Perhaps.

Grand Cleric Elthina of the Kirkwall Chantry allowed herself the weakness of remembering. Meredith Stannard as a Senior Templar, hair bright in the sunshine that reflected from her shining plate armor. A woman who took the sun symbol of the Circle as a literal standard. There had not been lines on her face then. The brightness of the hair had been naturally bleached by that sunshine, a blondness far lighter than the brassy color it was currently dyed.

Meredith had been zealous in her duties then, but not a zealot, not seeing blood magic under every stone. She had taken on the task of bringing order to the Gallows, to putting their books to true. Her promotion to Knight Captain had been the happiest day of Merry’s life back then. “More responsibility, El, but more recognition as well!” They’d celebrated in the Chantry refectory, the Andrastean Priest and the Knight Captain, with thin glasses of Antivan brandy.

Orsino was just as angry, just as changed. He did look older. Was it the pressure of being First Enchanter? He was older than both Meredith and Elthina. Weren’t Elves supposed to resist aging? Once upon a time she had looked at his handsome profile and thought him quite impressive, the older, more knowledgeable Senior Enchanter. Pleased once with the changes that Meredith was making in the tower, calling the Templars into account and tracking theft and waste. Scheduled hours had made it easier to keep track of the men and women of the Order and prevent abuses. But scheduled hours for the Templars as a Knight Captain had become regimented hours for the Mages when Meredith became Knight Commander. They were suddenly an offense, as the tightly held hours for the Templars had not been. All too often Orsino became affronted at what he considered a slight to his own prestige as First Enchanter.

Elthina held back a sigh. Holding a thin, wrinkled hand, deeply lined palm up until both had stopped haranguing. The Grand Cleric spoke, “This is my understanding of the issue. There are mages disappearing. They are there, then not and it has occurred in the depths of night, as well as the brightness of daytime. There are a smaller number of Templars disappearing as well. It is unlikely that the Templars are deserting, as they could just walk out the front gates, and they are addicted to the lyrium they take,” Orsino looked smug, while Meredith sour at that comment, “to be able to control the mages.” Now it was Orsino with the sour face.

“Several dead mages have been discovered, but it is thought that the majority of them have been spirited away by something called ‘The Mage Underground’. Several dead Templars have been found, including Sir Otto Alrik. It has been rumored that the Templars are being killed to allow the mages to escape.” This, in a nutshell, was what they had been arguing about for an hour.

Two fingers went up to stop interruption, “The Templars, were they found in the Gallows?”

“No!” Orsino, making things worse for himself and the mages, as usual, with his vehemence. “On Sundermount and on the Wounded Coast!”

Meredith gave the First Enchanter what one of Elthina’s lay sisters called ‘the stink eye’. “No,” she said calmly, “They were hunting for apostates and runaways.”

Elthina nodded, “How did they die?” A reasonable question, all things considered.

Orsino was given no chance to respond before the Knight Commander gruffly said, “Two handed sword, daggers, crossbow bolts, any number of ways.”

“But not magic,” Orsino put in mutinously.

“Not magic?” Elthina asked surprised. Turning to Meredith she asked for more, “If they were not killed by magic, what makes you think it was a mage that killed them? Or mages?”

“Of course they wouldn’t be killed by magic,” the armored woman snapped, “They’re Templars. Obviously they used Holy Smite and were attacked with weapons when the magic was useless against them.”

Elthina turned to Orsino, “Are you training your mages in weapons work now, First Enchanter?”

The Grand Cleric gave a teasing smile toward the leader of the Templars of Kirkwall, “Meredith?” Now if only Orsino would keep silent. Perhaps she could could kick him under the table?

Meredith Stannard gave a sigh. “Elthina, these are Templars. It is not likely that they were set upon by bandits and killed. These incidents were deliberate attacks upon the Templar Order. Heavily armored men and women in plate armor with highly identifiable livery. For what other reason would Templars be attacked and killed?”

“I see your point,” Elthina did, in fact, step on Orsino’s foot. “I have heard, though, of lyrium smugglers in the coves of the Wounded Coast. Might your soldiers have come upon those criminals?”

“Not particularly likely,” Meredith said dryly, “When the market for the lyrium is either a mage or a Templar. They were killed, murdered, Elthina. And the market for the death of a Templar is an apostate mage.”

“Speculation without proof,” put in the First Enchanter, “and it is unlikely that a mage would be able to physically take out one of the Templars from the Gallows. You’ve said that yourself! Certainly not a runaway mage from the Gallows. And if we’re speaking of Sir Alrik, then it’s quite possible that he was murdered by an someone's lover or father.”

Elthina looked at Meredith, whose face was stony. “Meredith? Was Sir Alrik breaking his vows?”

That provoked a bitter, angry laugh from Orsino, “He was a rapist.”

“Never proven. Orsino,” Meredith went on, “you did not like him because he was strong in his belief in the use of The Rite of Tranquility to control unruly mages.”

This was new. Orsino was quivering with rage. Elthina had thought that was just a bit of hyperbole that Orlesian romance novelists used. Orsino sputtered, “Only never proven because he used the Rite of Tranquility on mages to keep them from testifying.”

Elthina was startled, “Why wouldn’t one of the Tranquil be able to testify?”

Orsino was bitter, “He tells them they are to answer to no one but him. He tells...told them that they were never to speak of what he continued to do to them even after they were made tranquil.”

“Do you have proof of this, Orsino? These are grave charges indeed,” Grave, yes, and very disturbing, Elthina thought.

“Of course he has no proof. The Tranquil have never verified the accusations,” the Knight Commander had stiffened, “Blood mages can not be trusted in any case.”

“They weren’t blood mages!” Orsino insisted, “He didn’t even bring them to you for judgement. He created more Tranquil in the past year than we had made for the decade before he was assigned to the Gallows!”

Meredith Stannard slammed her gauntleted fist on the table. “Orsino, the man is dead, and there has never been a witness who testified to his abuse. You have no physical proof that the man was anything other than zealous in his duties. Let it rest!”

“Do you have the proof that is required to take this to the law, Orsino?” Elthina asked gently.

“No,” Orsino admitted.

Elthina knew what was coming next. “But,” Orsino began, “the complaints were consistent, and came from newly transferred mages who had no chance to be coached by mages already incarcerated in the Gallows!”

“Incarcerated,” scoffed Meredith, “the only mages incarcerated are those awaiting the rite of Tranquility. Which is administered legally by the Templar order!”

“What else do you call the imprisonment that mages suffer in the Gallows?” demanded the First Enchanter.

“Safely tucked away where they won’t harm anyone,” riposted Stannard, “including themselves. Where they can be watched to ensure that they do not succumb to the scourge of blood magic. Elthina, it is everywhere in Kirkwall, and it must be contained!”

“Neither of you have proof of either of your allegations. The accusations need to be aired, there is no stopping that now. But perhaps,” it was a gamble, “You can call on Guard Captain Aveline to have her assist with trained investigators. Have them seek out proof.”

It was a battle, with Meredith being uncommonly pigheaded about the sovereignty of The Gallows, and it’s separation from civil authority. Orsino gave way almost at once, but then it was in his best interest to find a stranger who would be unbiased. Pointing that out brought a reply from Orsino that no one outside of a mage’s quarters should believe that a mage would do any such thing. “Mages know not to hurt the Templars. It just makes the danger worse. Mages who escape run, because sending magical retribution on the Templar order means death or tranquility. No one would be foolish enough.

“Have Aveline assign men to the case,” Elthina advised before Meredith could respond, “and see what she comes out with.” It was a suggestion. But it was the calm quiet suggestion that would brook no argument.


	5. The Gallows

The gleaming steel gauntlet slammed on dark polished wood, gouging streaks into the pristine surface. Echoes through the hallway door drew startled faces to the open doorway of her office. Maker, they looked like rabbits. Her expression must have frightened them back to their stations.

Elsa stood to the Knight Commander's right. No surprise, no emotion, no deceit. No possibility of becoming an abomination like Meredith’s precious sister. The red, raised brand of the sun standing out on that pale, smooth forehead. Meredith Stannard loved working with the Tranquil. There was never a question that they would say one thing while believing another. Her Tranquil aide was thinking solely of how to deal with the damaged desk top at the moment. The Templars outside her door had been startled, frightened, had appeared with hands empty, and if this had been a demonic attack the evil would have the advantage. Those young men would have been dead in short order.

Cullen needed to improve the training to compensate. Increased training would anger the Senior Templars. It mattered not. How much easier it would be if her soldiers had no emotions to slow them down. Not Tranquil, of course. the Tranquil were slow in reaction time compared to those who could access adrenaline. Not that any of the Tranquil that Meredith had ever seen were fighters. Not really.

That was a thought. Elsa removed the Knight Commander’s gear as the older woman stood lost in thought. Elsa knew now better than to touch the sword, and Meredith shrugged out of the harness to lean the sheath by her chair. The power humming from the weapon - even at rest - was glorious. Clearing the Templar Commander’s head, granting momentum, the hum stimulated the idea that had appeared before.

Train the children. Build up their skills in fighter training, make them into soldiers, then transform them with the Rite of Tranquility. Their consent would be required, of course, once majority was attained. A pleasant thought, not to be forced to quibble and pacify, not to play the politician with her own people. Those soldiers should be responding immediately to every order.

A noise in the hallway warned her that one of those irritating questioners was approaching even now. “Knight Captain,” she greeted him without turning. Let Cullen assume that she was staring out the window. The man became overly concerned of late when he found her lost in thought.

“Knight Commander,” even Cullen looked young to Meredith now. It was that meeting with Elthina, with Orsino. They were all ancient, the three of them. Cullen went on, “How did your appointment with the Grand Cleric and the First Enchanter go?”

“We have been advised,” sarcasm heavy on her tongue, “to invite the Kirkwall Guard to investigate the murders of our Templars.” 

She turned, knowing she would see Cullen nodding, whether in agreement or acceptances Meredith could not tell and did not care. Calm as usual, her second suggested, “The Wounded Coast and Sundermount are beyond both our and the City Guards’ jurisdictions.”

“Anything to do with the apprehension of apostates and the control of mages is the Jurisdiction of the Templar Order.” It was an old argument. One that Meredith knew Cullen agreed with.

“We can’t verify magic use at the site, Knight Commander, and the bodies show signs of anything from quarrel bolts and blunt force trauma to decapitation. Although it might be possible to train a mage to detect magic use.” It was not a new idea. Cullen did not allow any hint of the resignation the Night Commander knew he felt.

“Mages can not be trusted to police themselves,” it was short. Really the man should know better than to bring it up by now.

Cullen bent his head to accede to her will. The Knight Captain would do so much better if he would simply accept that Meredith knew the correct course. She had seen the result of coddling her sister. Seventy dead, including the rest of Meredith’s family. Even so, poor boy, she could give him some forgiveness because of the horrors he had seen in the destruction of the tower on Lake Callendan. Kinloch circle had suffered from Greagoir’s lax attitude toward his mages. Greagoir and Irving were too close for the Kinloch Circle Knight Commander to be objective.

That a Grey Warden had forced past the Templars, fought his way through blood mages and demons to free Irving was an offense. If ever the Rite of Annulment had been called for, it was the blood mage uprising at Kinloch. Cullen’s survival was a true miracle of the Maker. The creator of all had made that man of the sternest stuff to resist the blandishments and torments of the evil mages. It had been a hard road for the man to bring himself back from the wreckage rescued by the Grey Wardens.

She gave the man waiting at parade rest for her response a searching stare. Tall, broad, still handsome with that wavy blonde hair untouched by gray or white even after his trauma. Young, his face did not show those deep lines that terror often etched, but too, any openness, the personality, was restrained. Cullen’s head was not empty as one might expect. He was excellent in his sword work, and his Holy Smite had the advantage of being immediate, accurate, and wholehearted. However, the Knight Commander did not believe Cullen had hardened his heart sufficiently to follow her as Knight Commander of the Gallows.

“ Cullen,” Meredith broke the silence and, “All spell components will be under the supervision of the Tranquil from now on. How many are scheduled to be Harrowed next week?”

“Three, Knight Commander.”

Inform the First Enchanter Orsino that we will be expecting at least twice as many.” Her voice was cold, “and I will have Elsa send a request to Guard Captain Vallen that we respectfully request their assistance in investigating the murder of our Templars.” 

Cullen's next statement was neutral. “First Enchanter Orsino will be unwilling to push the apprentices into what he will term ‘premature harrowing’.”

Meredith Stannard's smile was poisonous, “I am afraid that with the current climate, some of our older apprentices may turn to blood magic. Perhaps you can persuade the First Enchanter that a prematurely harrowed mage is preferable to an addition to our population of the Tranquil. I am certain that you will make him see reason.”

Not a twitch on that handsome face to tell the Knight Commandeer what she knew Cullen was thinking. Disapproval of course, but an unwillingness to challenge his Commander. Cullen thought to pick his battles, but Meredith knew he would bow to her decisions regardless. “Oh, and Cullen, increase training for all our Templars. They are to be ready at a moment’s notice for attack. Those two outside my office are sloppy.”

“Yes, Knight Commander,” the Knight Captain bowed and excused himself to follow her orders.

Meredith Stannard accepted a cup of hot tea from her Tranquil assistant, and leaned back against her carved wooden chair. The hand left free slipped down to touch the sword, just a finger’s tip to it. The Knight Commander had everything under control.

Cullen, formerly a Templar of the Kinloch Mages’ Circle in Ferelden, now Knight Captain in the Gallows of Kirkwall, took the opportunity to breath deeply and evenly as he walked toward his office. Scheduling a meeting with the First Enchanter could be done through his adjutant and Orsino’s secretary. Neither of those were Tranquil. Cullen understood the message sending a Tranquil to Orsino would be. It was polite, the Knight Captain reminded himself to request a meeting and allow Orsino to set the time and place. It was not an attempt to nullify or gainsay the Knight Commander. Cullen did everything he could to institute Knight Commander Stannard’s orders. That required, at times, some creative interpretation of the commands, or at the very least the ability to think outside of the tower, so to speak, in terms of ideas. Cullen counted through the list of apprentices for suitable candidates to Harrow. Yes, there were one or two who were eligible and to Cullen’s mind ready.

The trouble was their fear had taken hold. Confidence had just as much to do with success in mage craft as it did with fighting or anything else, really. There were rumors of apostates, fugitives from Highever, true apostates, not circle trained. Were it possible to find those, the Harrowing slate might be full enough to satisfy his superior while giving some wiggle room for some of the more nervous candidates.

Best to move some of the Templar recruits further on in their training to ready them for the Harrowing as well. Abominations were inevitable, and Templars needed to be prepared. Cullen had been working to implement Hawke’s suggestion to further educate the mages. If they were just able to understand.

Hawke. Cullen wished it was possible for the Champion to visit his sister. Rank had privileges, the Knight Captain supposed, but that certainly had not been true for Gareth Hawke. The Knight Commander did not like Hawke and the Templar’s dealings with the Champion reflected the attitude. Bethany Hawke was a talented - no, she was a gifted mage. She had been polite and eager to take advantage of the opportunities offered by the Circle. Cullen shifted his shoulders, avoiding any obvious stretching of the muscles in his back, so tense again. A Knight Captain of the Order of Templars should not be showing signs of stress.

Maker, he wanted to do something that would relax him. Confession? A quiet chat with Sebastian afterward. At this point the weekly trip to the Chantry was the only respite Cullen had. The Priest serving the Gallows was an intimate of Meredith Stannard, and her assistants, all low level Chantry Sisters, were afraid of the mages. In spite of Grand Cleric Elthina's lectures they treated their charges as though they were criminals. There, but for an accident of birth, could be any one of them. That Chapel was not a place of comfort for Cullen.

He could remember escorting the First Enchanter to confession and seeing Ser Alrik flirting with the Sisters. Alrik had made Cullen’s skin crawl from the first. The man had been the primary instigator of the Rite of Tranquility before his death. Meredith Stannard might term it murder, but the Knight Captain had suspicions otherwise. Possibly some enraged husband or father had caught the man forcing a loved one. Proof was always the issue. 

Cullen had no proof that Alrik had been taking sexual advantage of the Tranquil girls and women. Not just Alrik either. Citizens other than mages tended to flinch back from heavily armed men. That was not proof that someone in the Senior Templars was assaulting the younger men among the mages. Hunches were not evidence in a tribunal, and Cullen had not been able to catch anyone in the act. It was to the Knight Captain’s guilt, or was it continuing shame, that the children at least, the apprentices, were protected. Only the children were protected. Pre-Harrowed, untested, and the Knight Commander had not questioned his measures. 

Meredith Stannard had complimented Cullen on his methods for containing the ‘problems’. She had not been supportive of disciplining Templars except for infractions of the rules Meredith Stannard herself had instituted.

Cullen had assigned Bethany Hawke and a number of other ‘well behaved’, but in the Knight Captain’s opinion more vulnerable to possible abuse, mages to the Apprentices’ Tower. The Knight Commander had been displeased at first with the inclusion of the Hawke girl. Later it had been useful in the Knight Commander’s crusade to keep the Champion of Kirkwall from his sister. The behavior was deliberate, sustained, and organized, therefore Cullen had no qualms with describing it all as Meredith Stannard’s personal Exalted March.

A quick pace had brought the man to the administrative wing of the Templar quarters, and his own office. Nodding to his adjutant, who immediately brought in a mug of black tea, unsweetened. Cullen, who wore his armor as a matter of course, sat in a chair big enough to accommodate his steel plate. Sturdy to hold over two hundred points of muscle and strong bone added to the steel armor, padding, and heavy cloth of a Templar’s robes. The ironwood furniture was proof against scrapes and scratches, but heavy as a bronto to lug around. None of the Order of the Templars in the Gallows were light weights. They could carry the Knight Captains' large functional office equipment around, and there had been several times that punishment had been assigned. Closing his eyes, the Knight Captain savored the black tea. Several of the Tranquil tended bees for the Gallows’ honey. Cullen did not care for overly sweet tea, and rather than have another make a mistake and waste it, contended that black would do. Cullen was able to let tension go as he drank the hot tea. 

A deep breath, then the Knight Captain began to mentally organize what needed to be accomplished. “Fess?” eyes still closed he called.

“Yes, Knight Captain?” Fess had a light tenor. It countered his bulky appearance oddly.

“Speak with Elwin and Senior Enchanter Sarai about organizing spell supplies and equipment. The Tranquil will be taking on responsibility for those, as well as potion ingredients and supplies. Elwin will have the main responsibility of oversight. Have them both work out an equitable way to allow access for Tranquil Potions Masters and their students, Spell casting Enchanters and those apprentices, and appropriate Templars. They will need to discuss drawing lyrium from the Templar’s stores.

"Next, please send an invitation to First Enchanter Orsino to meet with me to discuss the candidates for Harrowing. Oh, yes. Training for the Recruits and Senior Templars will be increasing in the next fortnight. Notify them, so they’re not surprised. Finally, I will be meeting with Guard Captain Vallen at some point this week. The Knight Commander will be sending a note requesting their help with our investigations. 

"Now, I will take care of the patrol schedules tomorrow. And I’d like recommendations for promotion of recruits by the end of the week. Any emergencies?”

“No, Ser Cullen,” Fess bowed his way out. Good man. He knew his job.

Cullen did not sigh. That was something he no longer did. Finishing the still hot tea, the Knight Captain shoved himself out of the chair. Time to begin his rounds. Really, it was past time to check on the Healers. The man stretched in the privacy of his office, thinking that it would be nice to have the Healers look at his sore muscles.

Healers. Wynne. Anders. Anders had given the best massages, knew right where to dig into the muscle, smelt of lavender and clove and elfroot, and he didn’t use magic unless it was requested. At least not on the Templars who visited the Healing Hall in Kinloch Circle. Cullen had been healed by Anders too. In between escape attempts, and when Greagoir had allowed him out of solitary, he had been an exemplary healer. Solitary had been the only punishment that affected that skinny, blonde, mouthy, funny mage. 

Cullen had the gut feeling that the Darktown Healer was Anders. After the monstrous things the Templar had seen during the uprising, he could believe something evil overcoming the mage and ripping apart those Templars. Anders himself, no. Anders as an abomination, yes. Then why wasn’t he taking a more active role in seeking the man out and taking him into custody? 

Why was Anders in a free clinic in Darktown? Why had Anders taken so much time and effort to help Sebastian, a Chantry brother, and no friend to mages, though Cullen suspected those views had softened. Abominations sought power, tried to feed on others, worked to enslave mages and non-mage alike. The Darktown Healer, by all accounts, worked himself to the bone for the poorest of the rabble and only took donations in return. He published a frothing sensationalist ranting called “The Manifesto” that ill advisedly called for ‘True Freedom’ for all, but especially for mages contained in the circles. Cullen was no great literary critic, but the writing was quite frankly appalling and biased. It appealed to the image of the chained slaves crushed beneath the armored Templar’s feet, but did not address the issues that had lead to the creation of the Circles in the first place.

Cullen had figured out that Hawke, Sebastian, that Elf, Fenris, and the Guard Captain Aveline all knew who the Darktown Healer was. Against the code the Knight Commander preached, against the beliefs of the Templar Order, Cullen was allowing Hawke to keep rein on whomever the Darktown Healer was. That group of oddlings had destroyed monsters aplenty. They were known to be foes of blood magic and abominations. So Anders was neither of those. Even friendship does not allow the continuance of an abomination.

Then what had killed the Templars? Rumor had it that the first set of Templars had fallen to Darkspawn, in spite of the Orlesian Tribunal’s writ and findings. Everyone knew the tale of Anders being compelled to join the Grey Wardens, of King Alistair’s stepping between Anders and the gallows in the first place. But the Templars who had gone to remove Anders from Vigil’s Keep after? They had been literally ripped to pieces. What had done that, if not an abomination?

As it was, a waste of resources trying to find him right now. The ‘rabble’ as the Knight Commander called them, were not willing to yield the Darktown Healer to the Gallows, no matter the purse offered as bounty. Hawke was keeping watch. Cullen would have to trust that this would hold while he performed his duties under Knight Commander Meredith Stannard.

...

Bethany Hawke sat tailor fashion in her Circle robes. Leaning forward she told the tale of the Magisters of Tevinter and their assault on the Golden City, their plan to walk the streets there, and take over the Maker’s center of power. 

She normally took time with each apprentice, explaining how and why spells worked, not the dry instruction of other Enchanters. She was much adored by the children. Not a perfect teacher, all too prone to treat them as babies, like glass, which they were not! But a little bit of over explaining could be forgiven, when compared to the comforting arm about their shoulders when the homesickness struck. 

Bethany remembered birthdays, and what day you came to the Circle, and what your least favorite class was. Bethany could show quicker ways to do chores, scrub floors, or help with the littler ones. The willowy mage was not afraid to get her hands dirty, and often told stories about worse duties out in the World.

Bethany told wicked cool stories about how magic could be used in everyday life, about the mad mages of Tevinter and how their greed doomed all mages in Thedas. She sounded as though she had seen the Magister in her story with her very eyes. 

Looking down at their enthusiastic faces, Bethany Hawke knew she had made the correct decision.


	6. Kirkwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added two chapters, so if you missed 5, read that first, please.

In Hightown, families are hiding their children in the servants' quarters. Not heirs, of course, but loved nonetheless. The Gallows, it is known, will swallow those children up and make them disappear. Family members of mages are not welcome to visit the Gallows. Not only will they be eaten up by the Chantry and the Templars, but there will be no more children. More mages seem to be born each year and the wealthy inhabitants of Hightown, many of them anyway, do not want to send their children to be taught the evils of magic. Nor to be made Tranquil.

Several families, though, have spoken to Templars about the Rite. Rather than sending their precious blood, the possibility of further generations, to the Knight Commander for imprisonment, wouldn’t it be better for the Templars to practice the Rite of Tranquility and allow their children to stay home? Some of the Templars shudder in horror at the suggestion. 

Some of the Templars lick their lips and smile at the thought. Those that do fail to mention that magehood is thought to be carried in the blood, to be bred through. Those parents who suggested Tranquility as a means to control their own children’s breeding do not reveal that they already know this. After all, we do not admit to having mages in the family. And would it be possible for the brand to be in a less obvious location?

Other Hightown families devoutly watch and wait, and turn the children over to the Chantry when mugs fly through the air, or small fires start in odd places. It is their duty. They welcome the Templars when they arrive on the doorstep, and coldly or warmly bid their children fare thee well, knowing they will not see the once loved again.

This is in Hightown.

In Lowtown a young man who works hard in the market to feed his mother and siblings knocks over some merchandise without touching it, without being near. He knows, though. Other workers see, and pretend not to notice his hasty attempts to restock the barrels before the Dwarven Merchant notices. A sneak walks off quickly from his place, noticed by some of the young man’s friends. That night the boy is shipped off on a Fereldan trader, heading for the port of Amaranthine. “Don’t worry about your Mam, Jordie,” it’s the last he hears of his home, “We’ll be taking care of her and the kids.”

Jordie does not want to go. He knows, though, that in Ferelden they don’t treat mages by locking them in the Circle. Not anymore. Not under King Alistair the Brave, and Good Queen Anora.

Several twisty blocks away from where Jordie’s sisters and brother are sleeping together on a large pallet by the fire there are heavy gauntleted fists banging on the shabby wooden door of a tailor shop. An old looking but not really so very elderly, twisted man opens to prevent it being broken down, even accidentally, but he is swept aside by tall, broad men and women in steel plate and robes bearing the sign of the Sun, and identifying as Templars from the Gallows. “You have a daughter?” the leader demands.

“I have three daughters,” the tailor says dryly, “but none of them old enough to interest you, sir.”

But no. The baby, blonde and beautiful, was seen playing in the street. Leaves from a sick and shedding fig tree were floating above her head, shading her from the sun. Too young to know, she just wished for a bit of shade. Now, her chubby fist in her mouth, brown eyes wide at the giants invading her home, she is too frightened to cry at first. Her father, raising his daughters alone since his Racha died bearing the youngest, does not wish to let them take her. He fights, malnourished and tiny compared to the Order of the Templars’ patrol, but they take what is their right. The small man is left holding his remaining two girls, weeping at the loss of their sister. Hearing nothing of the words the Lieutenant is telling him about training, and safety for the community, and Mage. The Templar recruit who bears the small blonde child whispers reassurances to this now squalling baby, who reminds him so much of his own darker haired sister. Other members of the patrol mock his gentleness, until the Lieutenant shuts them up.

Further into the forge district a lone Templar, not so very senior, not so very likely to rise in the ranks, walks back toward the Gallows dock from a very cheap bar, housing very cheap whores. He is not in uniform, but his gait, his form are apparent. He is very drunk, and very relaxed in the afterglow from his liaison with a worn Elvhen girl. His throat is cut from behind by a shadow as he passes a dark alley way. Dust swirls around his body as his murderer uses the blood spraying all around to fuel a spell, a paid enchantment, that will bring more power to a local gang lord.

That is in Lowtown.

The Docks at night are not safe. Shadows, short and stocky, move smuggled goods from an Antivan vessel, while the first mate tucks a leather pouch of coins from the Carta into his belt. A second pouch joins the first as bundled shapes are carried carefully up the gangplank and down into the recently emptied hold. The escaped mages, captured goods now, will be kept under the influence of drugs until the ship reaches a Tevinter Port, where this living cargo will be unloaded. 

Lights flare from a docking several rows down, and the carriers quicken their pace. The light is lightning, and blue lyrium brightness shining in streaks from an Elvhen with a sword bigger than himself. The Carta knows that where the lightning and the strange Elvhen stand, Hawke will be also. And the Champion of Kirkwall is death on slavers. Down there, where the lights flash but do not attract the Kirkwall Guard, are a rival band of slavers. Easy enough to lure Hawke and his crazies with a street urchin and a sob story that will disrupt their rivals for the night. If the stories about Hawke are true, then forever, actually. “Keep watch for the dwarf, Varric,” the lookouts are told, “He sees us, he’ll know who were are. Give warning!”

Fenris, white hair cotton flying in the lantern light, Mercy Blade granting these slavers the mercy of a quick death by multiple amputations, enjoys these little outings with Hawke. He’s not so keen on dodging lightning and odd magical forces that flare his lyrium markings and make his flesh ache. Merrill is not his choice of mage companion. All in all, he’s gotten used to Anders, and they’ve developed a pattern over the years that is not possible with the Dalish Keeper’s First. Hawke’s huge sword lops off another head, which bounces down the steps into the water of the harbor. Varric mutters something to ‘Daisy’ before saying something else to ‘Bianca’, although neither of those two beauties responds to him. Bianca puts a quarrel bolt deep into the body of a rogue about to stab Hawke in the back. Daisy, Merrill of course, whirls in a flash of green lightning, and sets fire to the slavers’ boat’s mast. Green fire, which unsettles those fighting them even more. Hawke can never fight quietly, shouting in triumph, boldly predicting where in the Void each of the slavers will end up lost and looking for the Maker. Too soon, so far as Fenris is concerned, the battle is over. Varric has obtained treasure from places that Fenris does not wish to think about. Hawke and Merrill are freeing the mages being shipped as property. They are told to go to a halfway house in Lowtown. Fenris doubts they will listen to Hawke, two Elvhen, and a Dwarf, but knows his suggestion, that they head to the ever guarded Gallows’ dock to give themselves up, will not be acted upon either.

Such it is on the Docks at night.

Darktown. Dark and smoky. When lit, the dank halls glow with the fumes of torches. There are lamps, of course, but the best known of those are outside of the Darktown Clinic. If those are lit, the Darktown Healer is at home, and ready to help. Opening the huge doors to the clinic tonight would show two Dwarven women in stages of labor, their Carta husbands bullied into bringing them here, instead of to a Carta alchemist, a Human and Elvhen mixed family giving the Healer no space to work as he tries to save the young half blood’s leg. “Tad, I did ask you not to try to lead the Templars into the sewers again, didn’t I?” Anders’ tenor is tight with effort as glowing healing energy soaks through the boy’s skin and deep into muscle and joint and bone to encourage the body to heal.

“Needed to give Mara time to get away, Healer,” Tad’s teeth are gritted in pain, despite the potion his mother was still trying to feed him.

A snort, “But then you needed to fall ON to the Templar?” Anders brow twitched in irritation, “Steel plate hurts. Oh, but you know that.”

From between the gritted teeth Tad grinds, “Know that NOW, don’t I?”

No sound from the rest of his family. They will do nothing to disrupt the Healer, nor to remind the tall, straggly looking man that they have very little adequate to extend in exchange for the healing. Knowing the apostate for over five years they still refuse to take something for nothing. Anders is well aware of their situation. It reflects everyone else’s down here in the Dark.

Finishing the spell his hands release that last glow that sinks down into the leg. The mage is weary, healing takes strength from the caster as well as the subject, but if he doesn’t speak now, the family will escape into the darkness. “Rest. Tad needs to keep OFF the leg completely for a week,” knowing it should be a month, but praying they will keep it up more than a day, “Boil the water you use to wash with, and drink as much of the boiled water as you can.”

“Yes, Serrah,” the large, rawboned mother ducks her head.

Her Elvhen spouse, a smuggler, and not a very good one grimaced, “We may need him before that, Healer.”

Anders gives the man a look. “If he doesn’t rest it, the leg may go permanently lame. It won’t help your business if he can never haul freight again. Take that basket against the wall. There is food enough for now. Send one of the sprouts,” and here he fluffed the little brother’s dirty hair, “later in the week for more. Right?”

Turning back to the patient he became business like, “Tad, when you are back on your feet, keep an eye out for elfroot around the tunnels. I can take what you find in payment, yes?”

Yes, an eager head shake. A chore the boy can easily perform, possibly his little sisters as well, and these people down in the Dark know what use Anders will put the elfroot to.

Taking his leave to wash hands thoroughly, Anders joins the midwives for an update before addressing the first in a line of patients at the front of the clinic. It will be a long night.

Further down, deeper into the tunnels of Darktown hooded figures drift into a widening in what was once the sewers. A fire is set in a scribed circle, warming the cold darkness, but not assuring the struggling woman trussed up on a cold slab of stone. She is not naked, but that doesn’t reassure her either. The man leaning against the seeping wall watching her already told her his plans. Blood mage. He will use her life blood to call a demon to do his bidding. Her terror will also fuel the strength of the spell. This human has been doing this for a very long time, and his lank gray hair shows his age, though the hood hides the lines on his face.

Moments later, when the rites begin, the woman begins to scream. It echoes somewhat through the tunnels, but the thick stone of the walls deadens all noise before it goes too far. Certainly Anders does not hear it. And all those else who do huddle closer to blankets and loved ones, and stay where they are in their own little lit space in the blackness of Darktown.

Thus it is in Darktown.


	7. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders writes a letter to his Warden Commander, asking for assistance with Merrill's pet mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Anders, I do so love you. Especially without Justice.

There was too much to do in so little time. He had no enthusiasm for this either. However, he had promised Merrill. And a promise to Merrill was a promise to Hawke. Then there would also be Isabela and Varric poking their noses in if Anders did not come through. So. Today would start with the letter for Merrill. Call it research, and give it a fancy title. Anders wished he were still in contact with some of the researchers in Kinloch Circle. He missed being able to discuss magic with someone other than the Dalish.

A steady hand poured boiling water into the fired clay teapot. A gift from Sebastian, the glaze was warm and golden and poured in drips over the top and down the sides of the red clay. Sebastian had offered it “to brighten up the clinic”. Matching handle-less cups as well. The mage pulled one cloth wrapped lump from the big sturdy trunk, unwrapping the old brown woolen cloth cushioning it. Nothing the Darktown healer owned was soft. Lint went directly with bandages into healing supplies, and all clothing was worn into a threadbare state. Therefore, this was precious to the mage, that he would spare softness for it.

The pot held four of the cups when full, and thus it was lucky that Sebastian had given him four cups to serve tea along with the teapot. Anders had filled the pot with leaves of a potent black tea, for the writing he would be doing tonight would not be easy. Or quickly done. Since he didn’t want to do it at all. Parchment, scraped of old ink waited with his favorite pen to begin the creative process of writing to Anders’ commander, Theron Mehariel, Warden Commander of Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine. And since the task would not be sweet, best to put some honey into the mug before pouring the hot, steeped black tea into it. Anders put his long nose over the steaming cup, drinking in the smell of the tea.

“Dear Theron,” Anders muttered, then took a sip of sweet, hot black tea. Stalling, he covered the pot with a scarf as a cozy. Yes, or rather, no. Better to be more formal. “Dear Warden Commander Merhariel. Please forgive me for running away. Only I didn’t. And where the Void were you when the Templars came to take me away?”

Huh,. no. That wouldn’t do at all. “Warden, my Warden. I need your help. Please?” This was going exactly as well as Anders had thought it would. Should he perhaps write the middle before settling on the greeting? 

Yes. So. "Mirror, mirror. Warden Commander, I have a mirror that you might recognize. Black, non-reflective glass. A mosaic of shards in an intricate wooden frame that stands taller about as tall as I. Merrill says that it was the mirror that gave you and your friend Tamlen the Taint, or the pieces from it anyway. I gather that you broke it. The glass. She has been trying to fix it. Using blood magic to clear the Taint. Which, as you know, does not like to be removed. It has been fighting her, but has not infected her. Yet. So I am stepping in.

Why am I writing this to you? Because I promised Merrill that I would do what I could to help her, so long as she refrains from using blood magic. She had already stopped anyway because of Hawke. That is the Champion of Kirkwall, who is our leader here. Well, obviously not my leader, since you are my leader, but the leader of the people who have been stopping all kinds of naughty behavior here in the City and surrounds. Merrill is living with him. Merrill is trying to get the mirror, the eluvian, to work so that there is a working one for your people. So that we can find Arlathan or whatever city it was that your Tamlen saw in the reflection. Merrill wants to bring back the glory and the knowledge of Elvhendar. Even if it’s only a bit at a time.

And for your people, as in the Dalish, because for the most part the clan Sabrae has thrown Merrill out. Long story. Not going into it here. There was an issue with a Pride Demon, and a great deal of pride from Marethari, your Keeper. She’s fine. Marethari I mean. Not a scratch. Not possessed either. Not anymore.

Do you have any information on this? At one point when Hawke had just met us all, we discovered some Grey Warden documents on the Wounded Coast. We put them in a drop box in Kirkwall, but there were papers in that mess that talked about using blood magic to delay or fight the Taint. I think that Merrill’s use of blood magic has put a spoke in the Taint’s wheel on the mirror, so to speak. So if you know something about this, please let me know.”

Anders hummed nervously as he reread. What else was needed? Oh!

“Also, Justice has returned to the Fade. He was well and happy the last time I saw him.” Which was true. Well...ish. Happy as Justice ever did get. “Please let Nathaniel know.” That was about it, wasn’t it?

Oh, “Please do not come and take me away for some horrible Grey Warden punishment.” Okay. Anders breathed out, and realized that the tea was cold. He drank it anyway, sweet and strong. Thinking, “Do I have to sign this? Is it not evident that this is from me? Really, what would be the point?” Anders sanded the wet ink marking the palimpset and put it aside. Perhaps he would show it to Fenris and Sebastian that night when they got together to talk.

Lighting the Clinic lamps, he opened the doors and prepared to face the day.

It was later that Anders was sitting in a remarkably comfortable chair by the fire in Fenris’ mansion, staring up at the stars in the sky and sipping a truly lovely cup of tea made from some sort of flower petal. He hadn’t had this one before. No sweetener, it would have overwhelmed the flowery taste. Hot tea in front of a hot fire helped to keep him warm, because certainly the threadbare state of his clothing was not. It was the hole in the roof that made him think about that point. Anders wasn’t sure how Fenris managed to keep warm at night, being the skinny little Elf thing that he was.

“Distracted tonight?” Sebastian was holding a metal mug of wine and a poker whose end heated in the coals. Pulling the red hot metal out of the fireplace he thrust it into his mug, making the contents steam. The smell of mulled wine rose up and engulfed their small, cozy grouping of chairs.

Fenris, who did not adulterate his wine by heating it or adding spices, was swallowing a long pull from his bottle. He looked over at the mage with caution. Anders had made some unwelcome overtures in the aftermath of Justice’s removal. They were still not back to the relationship from before. Relationship or friendship, Anders was not sure. Neither was Fenris. Fenris suspected that Justice’s desire to be near his lyrium inlays had been a strong motivator in Justice and Anders’ interactions with the Elvhen before. Anders had told him that was rot, but Fenris could not shake the suspicions.

Why was Anders drinking tea when Sebastian and Fenris were imbibing wine? And Justice was no longer here to gainsay it as well? Anders was being polite, since Fenris had gone to the trouble to obtain the tea. And a tea pot. It was squat, black, and of wrought iron, and Anders thought it was exactly the type of tea pot that Fenris would own. And out of that utilitarian equipage had come the light, floral scent, and the pale green tea from Seheron.

So, Anders took an appreciative sip of the floral tea, smiling down into his wooden mug carved to look like a rather fat dwarf with his mouth open. Truly, it was disgusting, as the last thing Anders wanted to do was Orlesian kiss such a perverted looking denizen of Orzammar. It took a moment of staring at the wooden thing before Anders could gift his attention to Sebastian. “I wrote a letter to Warden Commander Mehariel today. About Merrill and the mirror. I don’t like how it came out, and thought I would ask you to take a look at it. Both of you.” Not a questioning at the end, simple statement of fact instead.

Anders offered the scrap of parchment to Fenris first, and concentrated on his tea while the Elvhen fighter worked slowly through the printing. Giving a nod, Fenris silently handed the sheet of parchment to Sebastian before taking another long pull. They both watched Sebastian read through before Anders asked, “Well?”

Sebastian was thoughtful, “You did not want the Warden Commander in particular to know where you were. Is that correct?” Hmmm. Nothing about the “Warden my Warden” or other odd turns of phrase?

“No,” Anders was not eager to return to Vigil’s Keep, “But Nathaniel Howe knows where I am, because we went to rescue him in the Deep Roads. His sister asked Hawke for help and all. He met Hawke, Varric, Merrill and me. Even in my clever disguise as a wandering mendicant, Nate still recognized me. He would not have kept that from the Warden Commander. And the other Grey Wardens who were with him, though I didn’t know them, they would have included it in their report.” 

“Even so, no use reminding him. Would it help if I wrote the letter? I mean, it would be from me. I can write it ‘for Merrill’, and send it?” Sebastian pointed out, “I am not encouraging you to lie, or practice deceit, Anders. But it would not be lying to state that I am looking for information on these things.”

Fenris’s face was severe, “You do not want to bring down the Templars on yourself, Anders. They could be intercepting correspondence.You mention blood magic in the missive. Though it should be obvious you are not practicing it, and are actually helping to keep Merrill from doing so as well. The words 'blood magic' alone might enough to convict you. If they could catch you.”

That possibility had not occurred. “Alright, please, Sebastian.”

They wrote the letter now, as Fenris had supplies for his lessons. Since the Elf had the gist of reading and writing, Sebastian had started working with him on extending his vocabulary and teaching Fenris to respond critically to the literature the Elvhen was reading. Fenris tended to like fancy stationery and very nice ink indeed. 

The new letter read: “To Grey Warden Commander Theron Mehariel of Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine. Greetings from Sebastian Vael, Brother of the Kirkwall Chantry.

I am in contact with Merrill, an acquaintance of yours from the Sabrae Clan. She has been working to restore an ancient Elvhen mirror, what she calls an ‘eluvian’, that she says was discovered by you and another clan member, Tamlen, at the beginning of the Blight. 

She has been working to remove the Taint from the mirrored glass, and has partially succeeded. The frame itself is untainted. Her method, which appears to correspond to a method being utilized by the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, has only been partially successful. She is no longer using that method, but the mirror is currently contained. Merrill has not been infected with the Taint.

We would be thankful if you would send us any information on the eluvian when you found it, or on the process by which you are attempting to delay the Taint. Any information at all would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you for your anticipated response.  
Sebastian Vael, Brother, Kirkwall Chantry.

Post Script: Another mutual acquaintance wishes me to inform you that Justice has returned to his home.”

“Perfect!” Anders rejoiced, “Absolutely perfect!”

“Now,” Sebastian started.

Fenris smirked, “I can predict that you are about to suggest some manner of misdirection to prevent any problem watchers from getting hold of this.”

Anders looked from one to the other. Sebastian smiled, his face open and pleased. “Of course I am!”

The note was shipped off with a sea Captain who owed Isabela a favor, with the understanding that it would be sent out from Amaranthine, and instructions given for a reply to be picked up in Denerim at The Pearl. 

Anders, having drunk all of the tea by this point requested mulled wine, and the rest of the evening was spent merrily in discussion of how best to prevent Isabela from cheating at Wicked Grace the next night.


	8. Isabela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what is Isabela up to?

Isabela preferred to be on top. It was in her nature. Currently she and Fenris were sitting up, the captain in the fighter’s lap, arms binding each to each, and Isabela’s kerchief clad head was thrown back in pleasure. Opening her eyes she looked up, through the hole in the plaster and broken timbers above her, past what looked like a crawl space and then through the roof itself out into the dark night sky of Kirkwall.

How distracting. Fenris’ mansion was interesting that way. They’d removed all of the corpses. Anders had insisted on it actually, although they were not decaying so far as any of them could see. There had been large puffy fungi growing out of the plaster as well. Out of the plaster, but not from the corpses. Anders had complained about that as well. Merrill had attempted to identify them, but was unable.

They weren’t cave mushrooms either, as Varric had been dragged by his “Daisy” to see if he could comment on them with familiarity. Varric tended not to show up in Hightown if he could at all avoid it.

Fenris, his face buried in Isabela’s rounded abundance, could have cared less at that moment about his ceiling, let alone the roof. When separation came to pass Isabela asked him about it. “Are you ever going to do something about that?” and she pointed with her chin, the hands being occupied at that moment in time.

“What?” came Fenris’ deep voice, “The ceiling?” Looking up he cocked a black eyebrow, contrasting with his very white hair, “Oh. the roof. Yes, someday I will look into having it fixed.”

“When?” his lover asked.

“Someday,” the Elvhen male sounded amused. “Not today, nor tomorrow. But someday.”

“Vague,” Isabela commented.

“Deliberately so,” Fenris agreed. And thought that would be that.

Isabela lived at the Hanged Man. The fact of her relationship with the Elvhen former slave Fenris did not change where she lived. Oh, Isabela would slip into his bed in the Mansion from time to time. And they’d enjoyed relations in every possible room of that mansion over the time Fenris had lived there. But Isabela still lived at the Hanged Man. And would, she said, until she could live on her ship.

After all, Isabela would tell anyone who asked, and sometimes those who did not, “I’m not married. I’ve had plenty of married, and no need to do it again.”

Serando flagged Isabela when she returned to the Hanged Man after an energetic day of following Hawke around the Wounded Coast. Inching her desirable arse onto the arm of his chair, the dark skinned Rivaini woman deliberately leaned down to expose the right amount of cleavage as she snared his mug of ale and appropriated a healthy mouthful of the beverage.

“Here, now!” it was outraged, indignant, and entirely played up. Serando was also dark skinned, an Antivan, and although tattooed, not with anything remotely resembling the infamous Antivan Crows markings. He was also not half the lover that Zevran Arainai was.

“What do you want, Serando?” she’d bedded him before from time to time. Not since Fenris, of course. No one but Anders since Fenris, and that was with the both of them in her big bed here at the Hanged Man. 

Serando, for a wonder, did not seem to resent Isabela’s lack of availability. Most of her business contacts knew and accepted it. Lowering his voice, not enough to attract unwanted attention, but certainly so as to be drowned out by the copious amounts of background noise, “I am in need of a helm. Marq has broken his fool leg. Trip to Orlais, then Ferelden, then back. Pays well.”

“Cargo?” Isabela mostly did not care. Mostly.

“A right boring one, my dear. And not what can be discussed openly. No slaves. No drugs. No Tevinter hoodlums, so within your guidelines.”

“My pay?” Always the important bit after Qunari involvement. And Serando didn’t do Qunari.

“I am to offer a cut of the profit, or a share of the cargo. But it’s not your type of shipment. Paid upon return to Kirkwall.” Of course it was. Never a purse up front anymore.

“You have piqued my interest,” Isabela announced grandly.

Serando leaned close and whispered in that shapely ear. The curved pierced eyebrow arched wildly. “Serando!” Isabela quietly smiled, which took the man aback, “That is exactly the type of cargo I am interested in!”

The haggling began, and when the dust had cleared, Isabela had agreed to the voyage with the understanding that she would be paid “in kind”. Not a difficult operation. Isabela was happy to take her cut and secrete it away. Serando was informed that Isabela would gladly take on any such voyages that the smuggler cared to send her way for the foreseeable future.

Kirkwall had ceased to be the prison Isabela had once found it, with the retreat to Seheran by the Qunari. Isabela could not believe that madman Hawke had saved her, fought for her, was still insisting that he was responsible for her. “Daddy Hawke” she had teasingly called him.

Fenris, of course, had brought feelings into the entire sexual relationship. The man was oddly devoted. It was not in the flowers and sweetmeats way. The sex, of course, was very good. Not that Isabela responded in kind. Well, except for the fantastic sex, of course.

It was not the Rivaini who made certain sure that Fenris was eating. THe littlest word to Daisy, who would speak to Hawke, who would bully Fenris into coming over so Orana could feed him up. Sebastian and Anders were regulars at the mansion, and Isabela knew that while she was away on more and more frequent extended voyages, the pair would take care of the broody elf.

And though she was away more often, in fact the party that followed Hawke now very rarely saw her at all, the stores she had secreted away grew with each voyage. When she returned from her responsibilities Isabela sought out Fenris and dragged him off to her large and comfortable bed in the Hanged Man for extended bouts of getting to know each other all over again. Hawke learned the difficult way not to look for Fenris after bursting in on one such bout and getting an education on the flexibility of his two friends. Merrill, peering under his arm, made thoughtful noises and plans for later on.

The jobs were not all done ‘in kind’ of course. Money was given to Varric to hold and invest when available. Isabela knew that a ship would be hers one day. It did not pay to have friends as crew, of course. Too many possibilities for someone to gainsay the Captain. That wouldn’t do on a sailing vessel. 

When she was home, such as it was, in Kirkwall Isabela walked the streets, watching, sometimes stealing, but mostly getting a feel for the lay of the city. Because things were changing in Kirkwall. 

Yes, they’d been changing all along. The Qunari presence had made a difference. Now with the Qunari gone and Dumar dead there was a power vacuum. The Free Marchers had been perfectly happy to settle their anger and unhappiness on the Qunari invaders, on the Fereldan refugees. Now most of the Fereldans had been assimilated or repatriated, and the Qunari had gone. There were still Tal Vashoth, it was true, who came into the city to purchase supplies before heading back to the Wounded Coast and their banditry. But most of Kirkwall didn’t go outside the city. At least not as far as the Wounded Coast.

The poor were still poor. They tended to take anger out on someone other. Someone not themselves. The Gallows was there, looming huge in the harbor. And the presence of the Templars appeared even larger. Templars guarded the halls of the Keep now. Patrols from the Gallows swaggered the streets of Lowtown and Hightown, walked a little less certainly in Darktown’s tunnels, looking for apostates. If the Templars were out, that must mean that mages were loose. Blood mages. 

Sadly, this was true. Some of the gangs that made it unhealthy to walk about Kirkwall at night were being led by blood magic. More and more it seemed that people were disappearing, their bodies found drained in the harbor. That is, if they were not just left on the paving stones for the watch to find. That would not, of course, happen to Isabela. She was a cloud of darkness and shadow when she moved through Kirkwall at night. Even when she walked with Hawke and Fenris, not so often of late, it was best if others did not see her. Not until it was too late for them.

Aside from Fenris, who was the pirate’s first thought on entering the harbor, Isabela made certain that she had time for Merrill when she was in port. There was, of course, the regular game of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, but that was in addition to visiting her Dalish kitten in Hawke’s mansion in Hightown. 

Isabela had no palate for the wines that Hawke now served at his place. Bodahn, however, managed to find some Rivaini reds that he kept for her visits. Merrill drank water, sometimes a steeped mess of leaves in the water. Not nearly as palatable as the teas that Anders insisted on drinking. It was an acquired taste, as Merrill told her.

Right now Isabela was slouched down in an overly soft chair with big boots stretched out to the heat of the fire. “Then what happened, Kitten?” they’d been catching up.

“The spider exploded, Isabela. I was not aware they could explode! Internal organs all over the place, even in Hawkes beard if you can imagine!” Merrill sat on the floor, leant against the dog. Isabela could never remember what the dog’s name was. Right now he was furniture for the petite Dalish woman, whose bare toes wiggled in the warmth radiating from the fire.

“What I imagine, Kitten, is that you and Hawke had fun later in the bath!” Isabela smiled at Merrill’s giggle. They were such an oddly unmatched pair. Yes, Hawke and Merrill, but also Merrill and Isabela. The Rivaini was pleased at being able to make the Dalish laugh.

“Well, that too,” Merrill was still giggling, “ But hauling the spider eggs back to Kirkwall, and then packing them up for Hawke to take to the Gallows to that Tranquil man who asks for components,” Merrill never went to the Gallows if she could at all help it, “they started to hatch! We spent the entire night chasing after them and hunting them down here in the mansion!

Bodahn and Orana were very upset with us, and even more upset when Hawke and I spent the next two days helping them to clean the place from top to bottom!”

Of course, Hawke and Merrill had pitched in to scrub spider blood and pieces from floors and walls. When Isabela had her ship she was looking forward to taking Hawke and Merrill with her. The open sea, sunlight strong on the deck, Hawke and Merrill scrubbing the wooden decking. Fenris climbing the lines, half clothed. Isabela, of course, at the helm setting the course. They needed the ship. If only to keep these people that Isabela had, unfortunately, feelings for safe.

Hawke bustled in. The man did not know the meaning of stealth, Isabela mused. Putting a heavy hand on Isabela’s dark hair in greeting the rogue went down on one knee to kiss his rising mate. When she had control of her mouth again, the woman he loved said practically, “I was telling Isabela about the Giant Spiders.”

“You would have hated it!” Hawke boomed, then laughed. “Fenris was green! Spider colored from head to toe and then some! For some reason he blamed Merrill for his misfortune.”

Shaking her head, straight short dark hair flying wildly, “I know not to use that spell around spiders now!”

“To be fair,” that deep, loud voice was so opposite of Merrill’s flutelike piping, “I think it was the spell and my sword operating at the same time.”

“Yes, well, we know better now, do we not, ma vhenen?” That was a happy look on Merrill’s face.

Much as she loved the sea, the feel of a ship beneath her feet, Isabela felt very happy to be at home.


	9. Kirkwall Guard Captain Aveline du Lac Vallen Hendyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and Aveline?

The big, blonde captain of Kirkwall’s Guard was feeling ill. The last time Aveline had felt this sick was when she’d lost the baby. Poor little thing, not ready to face the world. Donnic had run for Anders, dragged him up to the Guard Barracks in the dead of night to tend to Aveline. Neither of them had told anyone. Only just past the first three months, but even so, Aveline had wanted everything in order before she announced to the public that the Captain of the Kirkwall Guard was in the family way.

Aveline still did not trust Anders. Aveline did not trust any mage, and it wasn’t because of her first husband, Wesley Vallen. But Anders had been there for her. He’d held her, stroking hair knotted and sweated, while Donnic took care of starting the first bell patrols off, and receiving the last bell reports. None of her men and women knew anything other than that the Captain was ill. Aveline knew she should be embarrassed by her weakness, by her tears and and devastation at the loss of their daughter. Anders had made her feel safe and loved and that grief was allowed and understood and something that Aveline needed to do. Anders had told no one, not even Hawke, about their loss. It was Aveline’s and Donnic’s to tell, he said.

Anders had worked with Donnic to clean her up, swap out the linens on their big bed, and dosed Aveline with potions to help her body heal. Anders had seen parts of her body that only Donnic Hendyr and Wesley Vallen had access to heretofore. The Healer assured Aveline that she could conceive again, but right now was not the time so far as the Guard Captain was concerned. Events were… strained here in Kirkwall. Blood mages coming out of the woodwork. Gangs roving the streets. Templars watching their every move.

But this. Now. Hawke had been in after seeing Cullen. There were accusations of corruption, rumors of ill-doing by Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr. It struck Aveline to the heart. “I just met with the Knight Captain,” she’d told Hawke with an expression of disbelief, “Last week. Why didn’t he bring this up then? Does he think I’m not moving on the Templar murders?”

Hawke had tried to be reassuring, patting her on the shoulder. “This is unofficial. I am going to do everything in my power to find out what is going on. I’ll find out who is spreading these lies. Cullen can’t get involved without making it official. He knew he could speak to me, and it wouldn’t go anywhere but to you.”

“He has no right,” Aveline began, but was cut off by big, burly little brother Hawke.

“Cullen is protecting you from Meredith, Aveline. And everyone else who might profit from your disgrace, and by chaos in the Halls of Government in Kirkwall. Don’t worry, Aveline. We’ll work through this and find out who the culprit is.”

“If you find them,” Aveline began again, and was again cut off by this infuriating man who tried so hard to take care of her.

“When we find them, I will come and get you,” Hawke’s promised came with an angry glint in his eye. For once Aveline would not try to calm him down or hold him back. For once it might be Aveline who crossed the line. 

“No,” Aveline said as she stood from behind her desk, “I will go with you. We look into this together. No one will be able to say that I swept this under a rug. They don’t get to say that the Champion of Kirkwall does my work for me.”

Hawke clapped those huge hands, and it sounded like thunder, “That’s the way, Aveline! We’ll find them and take them down!”

The big bearlike man’s enthusiasm helped to soothe some of the queasiness in her stomach, but Aveline found herself heart sore that anyone would believe her to be corrupt. What she needed was to be angry. Thinking about Cullen’s involvement, of the Templar who had been berating her before Hawke’s entrance, those, now, incited rage.

It was no simple trail. Hawke could testify that Donnic and his patrol were loyal. They’d nothing but praise for the training and policy changes. Granted, Donnic was Aveline’s husband, but though he selected his own patrol route, it was no easy berth. Promotions were based on performance, and it was proven, not rumored. Cullen, when confronted, raised his hands in protest and admitted that the accusations had come from Lowtown.

Brennan, when confronted, told them that Captain Jeven had returned. Not a simple trail at all, but they were able to find him in Darktown. Hawke commented on the presence of rabble from his previous battle with the corrupt Templar, Ser Varnel. Was that a link back to the Chantry? Hawke did not believe so. Sister, then Mother, Petrice had not had the support of Grand Cleric Elthina. Hawke, in spite of not particularly caring for the Grand Cleric, did not believe that either Meredith Stannard or Elthina were behind the loathsome slanders against Aveline.

This was Jeven, and if it involved the Chantry, it wasn’t Elthina who was behind it. Jeven attacked them, of course. Hawke had bit his lip and stepped back to let Aveline handle him. It was her right, her duty, and the Champion of Kirkwall was there to support the Captain of the Guard. Messy, difficult, as Jeven knew some tricks they’d seen Isabela use. That said a lot.

More importantly than his dead body, they now had proof of Jeven’s scheme, and that his lies of corruption were just that. Lies. Hawke’s pleasure, relief really, in telling Cullen what they’d found out, was obvious. Cullen relaxed just the slightest bit upon receipt of that information. Good, then. Hawke had given him something the Knight Captain could use. Hawke wasn’t sure what, but the rogue was certain that putting a stopper in Knight Commander Meredith Stannard would involve Cullen in some way.

“Hawke,” Aveline had been quiet until they got on the boat to go back to the Kirkwall docks, “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Keep an eye on Anders, will you? And Merrill?”

Hawke’s mabari lying at the big man’s feet cocked his head at exactly the same angle as the rogue. “Any particular reason?”

“Well, to begin with, there’s the Manifesto. It’s appearing everywhere now. There is unrest,” it was the best description the Guard Captain could think of.

“Have you read the Manifesto, Aveline?” Hawke was on the edge of laughter.

“Yes,” that startled Hawke. He hadn’t expected it. Aveline continued, “I read everything that might cause a disruption in the city. It’s part of my job, Hawke. And the divide between mage and non-mage here is increasing. It’s a problem. People are frightened. And frightened people do stupid things.”

Hawke hummed, a deep rumbling, “You think people will start targeting mages?”

A nod, “And more. I think that mages are targeting people throughout the city. Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown, the Docks, the gangs in all of those areas of the city have been infiltrated by blood mages. Their leaders are blood mages. I am not clear,” Aveline looked out over the shortening patch of water to the upcoming dock, “Where they are all coming from. They can’t all be coming from the Gallows. Everytime I go to the Gallows it seems to be full, though more with the Tranquil now than mages.”

“The Mage Underground,” Hawke’s thoughtful basso asked, “You think they’re coming from there?”

“Maker, I hope not!” Aveline exclaimed, “Because i don’t want Anders to be involved in this.”

“You know how Anders feels about blood magic,” he reminded her.

A vigorous nod, “Has,” a pause, then low and quiet, “has Anders spoken to Justice? I mean, since they separated and he came back from the Fade on Sundermount?”

Hawke could only shake his head. “Not to my knowledge.”

“It was Anders who objected to blood magic, not Justice, Hawke?” The rogue could hear the concern in the Guard Captain’s voice.

Hawke pointed out in a steely tone, “Anders couldn’t do Healing if he was using blood magic, Aveline.”

“Just so,” it was thoughtful, and the Guard Captain was looking back at the approaching dock. “There has been a massive increase in bloodless bodies. It was worrying before, but now, it’s gone beyond that.”

“I do hope,” Hawke’s deep voice was deadly quiet, “That you don’t think Merrill is going out and slitting throats.”

That startled the Guard Captain, “Maker and Andraste, no! That’s not what I meant at all, Hawke. Merrill is family, remember? If it's family, you protect. Doesn't matter who it is, blood or not. I don’t think Merrill is causing this, or I’d have come to you long ago.”

Hawke pushed his head back until it hit the mast behind him. “Has Isabela told you about her plan?”

“Isabela? Hawke, we don’t speak, we carp at each other. What has she said now?” trepidation and curiosity warred on the freckled face.

“According to Merrill, Isabela has berths set aside for all of us. For when Kirkwall goes up in flames! You and Donnic, Merrill and me, Bethany, Varric, Sebastian, Anders, Isabela and Fenris. And Elthina.”

“Elthina?” that brought a laugh to her voice, “Isabela will be whisking off the Grand Cleric when the shit hits the fan?”

The bearded lips quirked up at the corner, then expanded into a huge grin. “Some of our family are fond of her.”

“No Templars, I see,” Aveline smirked.

“No,” Hawke considered, “But perhaps I can talk her into bringing Cullen along. He’s big and pretty. She likes big, pretty men.”

That got a scoff, “And yet she’s with Fenris.”

“Fenris is big of… heart.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” skeptical and back to his saucy Aveline.

Clearing his throat, “My point is that you do have resources to rely upon outside of the Guard and Bran and the Templars, Aveline. Don’t be afraid to use us if you need to.”

A sigh, then Aveline stepped forward to give the man who was to all intents and purposes her little brother, “I will keep that in mind.”

Stepping back, “I suppose then, that I should invite you into an investigation. A number of Templars have been killed. Among the weapons used to do this were two-handed blades, small daggers, a crossbow.”

“Oh,” Hawke stilled.

“They do not know if magic was in force,” Aveline went on, her gaze never leaving Hawke’s blue eyes, “and they strongly suspect apostates from one of the other city states in the Free Marches, or escapees from the Gallows.”

“As if most mages know how to fight. They don’t, Aveline, or they wouldn’t turn into abominations when threatened,” it was dismissive.

Sarcastically Aveline said, “I don’t know anyone who goes out looking for trouble with a couple of two-handers, a crossbow user, and someone who does double back stabs.”

Placing his broad, scarred hand flat over his heart, Hawke swore, “I solemnly tell you, Guard Captain Hendyr, that neither I, nor any of my party, have been out murdering anyone, Templar or otherwise. We are a law abiding group of bounty hunters.”

“Law abiding?” for Aveline that was a squeak.

“We act in self defense. Sadly, there are times when we are attacked. On the Wounded Coast, the slopes of Sundermount, the tunnels of Darktown. We’ve done our share of investigating for the Templars as well. Templar Emeric was killed by shades. We discovered his body when we were tracking down blood mages for Meredith,” Hawke was silent a moment at the thought of that good man.

“Aveline,” Hawke looked back up at her, “There has been an increase in blood magic. I don’t know where the mages are coming from, but it’s not the Mage Underground, at least not the ones escaping from the Gallows. And it’s not directly from the Gallows. When we find out more, I’ll let you know. Deal?”

“Deal,” Aveline held out her hand, and shook Hawke’s on the compact.


	10. Searching in the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders has been looking for Justice.

Anders was getting sick of touring the Fade in search of Justice. He’d been looking for the spirit, one of the First Children as Merrill kept reminding him, since he’d returned to Kirkwall after being separated. Merrill was stuck on that description, which apparently she had decided was a better way to get mages to accept demons as spirits. Not that she was quite so willing to make deals with those any more. 

Every night - and a good portion of some of the days as well - were spent doing the same. Over and over, his mind and thought went clambering about in the Fade. Seeing into the Fade was something mages could do if they took time and effort and knew the correct sequence of dance steps. Well, Anders had always thought it looked like dancing.

Justice was not in the Fade anywhere near the Clinic. This lack of presence irritated Anders no end. The issue was the the Healer could not just go out in public and pull the movements necessary, because Andraste only knew who would see him. Maker only knew who would immediately call the Templars. The Stone (and that bit was reaching, as even Varric didn’t actually call on the Stone very often) only knew how fast they’d throw him into the Gallows and drag him through the Rite of Tranquility before they topped him. 

Anders had no doubt that they would insist upon the Rite - after an unholy amount of smiting to get him to the Gallows - before killing him. If it was at all possible. Anders had many internal discussions, now that Justice was gone he had to discuss it with himself, regarding whether or not to die rather than be taken. The mage had sleepless nights. He rather thought that would continue until he met up with Justice in the Fade.

The Fade was familiar to him. The ‘air’, the entire feel of the place was not exactly home, but it was where he went each night, worked there, played with the stuff of the Fade in his spell casting. Anders had just expected to see Justice there, more often than not. And he had seen the spirit not at all. 

Justice was a friend. Had he been a friend? Anders cared about Justice. The presence, or lack of it, ached and worried him like a missing tooth. Did the separation affect Justice as it did Anders?

How much did the mage know about the spirit? Justice had been the incarnation (which literally meant of the blood, didn’t it? So not particularly accurate…) of the human concept of justice, and then had been mutilated by intimate contact with Anders' thoughts and feelings and perversions. Well, possibly Anders was not as perverse as he had previously thought. The red of contamination running through Justice’s glowing blue bothered Anders. The memory of it came to him, jumped out at him, when he least expected to be reminded. 

Justice had been outraged by the plight of the mages, about their treatment in the hands of the Templars. Justice was offended and aghast that Anders had not felt the need to begin his own Exalted March on the Chantry and on the Templar order. Justice had also spoken to Fenris about doing something to fight against slavery in Tevinter. It hadn’t bothered Justice’s sense of order for Fenris to battle against the blood mages of Tevinter, such as Danarius. Injustice was injustice.

To Justice, it was imperative that one be loud and clear about a stance against any form of injustice. Anders had a difference of opinion. Anders was not going to out himself in public in Kirkwall. Not without a desperate need. He wasn’t even sure he needed to be in a particular spot to be in that spot of the Fade. Just to be certain, though, Anders began to travel. He went to sites he was sure were secure, out of the public view, and attempted to access the Fade. Of course, he’d asked Hawke to escort him to Sundermount to watch over his body while he enacted the spell casting required. Hawke and Fenris and Sebastian, the four of them. Anders had met up with quite a few of those Second Children, some of them extremely hostile. Anders had been only too pleased to fireball the desire demons, ice bolt the rage demons, and avoid the pride demons altogether. One would expect fewer demons if Anders was destroying so many, but there seemed to be no end. 

The demons actually residing in the Fade were better than echoes of the Darkspawn that appeared from time to time. The Taint was not present, and this told Anders that they were dreams, manifestations of his sleeping mind, and not actual hurlocks, ogres, and the other queasy varieties of darkspawn that Anders had heard were created from the flanks of a broodmother. Anders had missed those horrors when Theron Mehariel had left him at Vigil’s Keep during the attack of the Darkspawn and the fight for Amaranthine. No broodmothers for Anders, although the thought made him shudder, grues climbing up and down his spine. Andraste be praised that meant the monsters did not appear in Anders’ dreams. Neither did the talking Darkspawn, for which Anders was incredibly thankful.

As for the search for Justice, Wounded Coast was the same. Isabela wasn’t around so much anymore, and once again it was Hawke, and Fenris, with Sebastian accompanying him. No sign, no blue glowy whisper of Justice there either. And once again, there were an unhealthy number of demons for Anders to destroy. Battling the First Children in the Fade was not Anders’ idea of a good time, especially when Fenris was so hot to do his own smiting, the sword kind, not the holy type, and since he couldn’t get to them in the Fade, Fenris was spit out of luck.

Things weren’t much better when he slept. Except that when Anders slept in Hightown to try and discover his blue, glowy friend, Merrill showed up for the ride as well. This made for some interesting adventures, but no sign of Justice. Sometimes Merrill found her way into his dreams in the Clinic too. The Dalish mage had not shown up when he’d gone down to the Docks to try it, guarded once again by the long suffering Fenris, Hawke, and Sebastian. Nor, oddly, the Alienage. But apparently she’d fallen asleep on Varric’s sumptuous bed, while Anders was trying out the Lowtown aether from Isabela’s bed, sans Isabela. 

“Ooh! Anders! Are you sleeping here as well?” that perky, smooth voice warning the Healer to look up and over to the slanted top of the Hanged Man’s wall as it was represented in The Fade. 

“I hadn’t planned to meet up with you here, Merrill. Where are you?” Anders had been startled.

Merrill’s ankles were crossed demurely as she perched up above him. Her green tunic played oddly off of the general color of the Fade. She was barefooted as usual, and wearing a flower behind the right ear. Anders wondered where the flower had come from. “I think I must have fallen asleep at Varric’s. I hope I’m in his bed. Otherwise I’m lying with my head on the Wicked Grace table. With Wicked Grace going on around me. Probably I’ll be drooling, don’t you think?”

Anders looked about the place, “Most likely,” he agreed without really thinking. The blond mage looked down at his body. Well, body in the Fade. What did he look like? He was wearing robes. Dark blue. Not Tevinter, and not Circle. Rubbing a hand over his jaw in thought he realized that there was no stubble.

“Haven’t found Justice yet, have you?” she fluted, disturbing his train of thought.

“No,” he cut out shortly.

“I haven’t seen him. I thought he wouldn’t much like to see me either. Have you looked over there?” she was pointing in a direction Anders didn’t want to consider.

“I’ve looked everywhere." The admission was sighed. “Hightown, Lowtown, Docks, Alienage, Darktown, Wounded Coast, Sundermount. He’s not even where we were separated.”

That tilted head, like a bird. Her voice was thoughtful as she commented, “But not over there.”

Heavy sigh now. Then Anders patiently asked, “Over where?”

“The Gallows,” Merrill piped, “You never look over there when I’m here with you.”

“What are you talking about, Merrill, I look over there all the time.”

“No, you look at the Black City, even, but you don’t look at the Gallows. It’s just over there. Look!” How Helpful and encouraging this Dalish female was.

Anders climbed up from the unmade bed floating oddly angled in front of Isabela’s Fade closet, pulling himself up onto the top of the wall. Here in the Fade he never seemed to be out of breath. Even use of spells and loss of mana didn’t equate with fatigue exactly. There was no ceiling, just the empty open eternity of the Fade. Seating himself on the uneven surface he asked, “Alright, where?”

Merrill’s slender arm pointed straight away. Anders found himself reluctant to follow that line. It was an uneasy feeling that prevented him, a panic, and he had to force his head to turn. 

There was an island. A huge island. The bulk of the Gallows rose up above this little floating place that was Kirkwall. Why was the Gallows so much bigger than the City? How had he missed this? Dark masonry loomed, the statues were visible above the walls, rising out of the courtyard. And there was movement. Flames, glows, flickering lights, spirits and demons crawled over the walls and roof. 

“Andraste’s Knicker Weasels!” Anders’ panic increased. How had he never noticed this? The Gallows drew them, the First Children, or perhaps it was not the place, it was the inhabitants. Anders turned back and looked about Kirkwall from this vantage point, low, it was Lowtown after all, but above the Docks and so forth. There were the normal number. Well, normal for Kirkwall. Anders could remember that in Ferelden it had been rare to meet up with a spirit. Even with demons, it had been rare. They were attracted to places like Kinloch CIrcle, and they’d deliberately tried to bring in spirits there. The First Children were needed for Spirit Healing and teaching apprentices about the Fade. Demons were required for Harrowing.

Anders shuddered. “Merrill, look at them all. They’re like flies on a honey pot in Lowtown!”

“The Fade is their home, Anders,” her voice sounded in his ear. Turning quickly, the Healer saw that she’d clambered over to where he was situated. “It may be their home, but there’s so much space. Why are they all there? On the Gallows?” The sheer number of them moving, flaring up, on, but not in.

“Kirkwall draws them, Anders,” said so matter of factly, as though it was something she’d known all along. “It’s not just the ones who are trapped here, like the Pride Demon on Sundermount. Or that Xebenceck down in Darktown.”

“How many of them have we killed over the years?” Anders wondered, “Not just me lately, but Hawke and company over the last decade?”

“There isn’t a finite number, Anders,” was the reply.

The sickness rose in his gut again. “Do you think that Justice might have been trapped over there? Are they drawn there and then stuck? Like flies on fly paper?”

Merrill shrugged, “What was your agreement? Wasn’t it that he would come here and fight against blood magic and demons attacking mages on the Fade side? Wouldn’t that be more useful if he were protecting them in the most concentrated group of mages?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” it was muttered.

“Well, as much as the blood mages and apostates here have increased, isn’t the Gallows still the largest cluster of mages until you get to Tevinter? The other Circles seem to be rather small, wouldn’t you say? At least from hearing about them from the Starkhaven apostates,” Merrill poked him with her words.

Anders watched the movement across the void between their little bit of land and the Gallows mountain of it. They were everywhere. Merrill was talking again, “Why can’t the Tranquil be taken over by the spirits? We know now that mages are not the only ones. Templars can. And others can be enthralled. So is it that the blood mages put the demons in? 

"If that’s true, why didn’t they take over Kieran? Hawke told me about him. You were there for that weren’t you?”

“Kieran fought them,” Anders was throughtful.

“So…” Merrill drew it out, “If a mage made a deal with a demon, and placed it inside a Tranquil, what would stop them from fighting?”

“Maker, Merrill!” Anders panic was loud, “What a horrible thought!”

Merrill looked sad, “The Tranquil. The Rite is a horrible thought.”

Anders looked down at the tiny Dalish mage, “The thought of an army of Tranquil abominations is an even greater horror. Wouldn’t you say?”

She nodded. They watched the movement over the walls over the Gallows until they both woke up.


	11. The Chantry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elthina is not unaware.

Grand Cleric Elthina could still move gracefully down the impressive curving stairways of the Kirkwall Chantry, in spite of her years. Slightly older than Knight Commander Meredith Stannard, and a decade younger than First Enchanter Orsino, Elthina remembered when she’d appointed Meredith to her current position. The previous Knight Commander Guylian had appointed Orsino. That was before Guylian had been hanged by Viscount Threnhold in an attempt to contain power held by the Templar Order in Kirkwall. Some things did not seem to change, no matter where you were, nor when. 

The hanging had been patently illegal, by the laws of Chantry and Kirkwall, and of course the Viscount had been arrested by Meredith, then Knight Captain, tried for murder and abuse of authority, and was himself now dead of illness while in a standard prison cell. That had been in the old days, when Meredith had wished to distance herself from the Viscount's justice. Now the Knight Commander was just as prone to sentence the long drop. Then, though, bare stone walls had been a sad comedown after the luxurious life Threnhold had set up for himself. After the death of Guylian, Elthina had promoted the severe Knight Captain, who had done her best to clean up corruption wherever she found it. Elthina and Meredith had been acquainted since Meredith was orphaned, and friends since Elthina was a mere Sister in the Chantry, and Meredith a sober but enthusiastic Templar recruit.

As Knight Commander, Meredith had engineered the appointment of Dumar as Viscount. Accepted by the nobility, he’d been oddly adept at walking the thin line between the Templars and the nobility in Kirkwall, refusing to roll over and be a puppet for the Templar Order. His dedication to the office of Viscount had stunted Dumar's relationship with his son, who had found solace in the Qun. And hadn't that been a mess when Mother Petrice had involved the Chantry. Seneschel Bran complained almost constantly now about the difficult of his job, handling much of the Viscount's duties while dealing with the Templars who even now were stationed everywhere in the Keep, let alone with the orders coming down from the Knight Commanders’ office in the Gallows.

At the time Elthina had thought it a good choice, the only real choice, choosing Meredith for Knight Commander. It was standard, actually, selecting the Knight Captain and training that person to fill the roll of Knight Commander later. Orsino had been in power as First Enchanter for a decade, and there needed to be someone who would not bend before him, who would counter him, and yet was familiar with the First Enchanter. Perhaps counter was the wrong word, but balance in the Circle had to be maintained. Begging for an unknown quantity from Orlais had not been possible, with the repercussions of Threnhold’s actions and the issue of an imbalance of power. The decision had been not only sustained by the Divine and the head of the Templar Order, but Elthina had been commended for her actions in the aftermath of Threnhold’s bid for more power.

Guylian had not been an innocent. One of the reasons that Elthina had placed Meredith Stannard as Knight Captain was to rein in corruption, seek it out and sear the leakage of money and lyrium. With only suspicions, the Grand Cleric could not replace Guylian, not with his strong hold on his Templars and even stronger political hold on Kirkwall. It wasn’t Guylian’s administration that had gotten him hanged, but his overt struggle for authority over the Viscount’s office.

Long gone now. Meredith Stannard was not one to fall prey to gluttony, to wrap herself in luxury like Threnhold, nor to seek out power for it’s own sake as Guylian did. Meredith Stannard held to the codes of her office, and once she set up rulings, she expected them to be followed. She'd started as a merciful leader, patient, if strict. However, it was also Meredith, as Knight Commander, who had said, ““Magic is a cancer in the heart of our land, just as it was in the time of Andraste. And like her, we are left with no choice but to purify it with fire and blood.”

Fire and blood that she'd thought was rhetoric, but looked to be anything but now. Elthina, Grand Cleric of the Free March city of Kirkwall, was the religious authority not just to the City’s inhabitants, not just to the Templars who worked in the Gallows and the Chantry, and not just to those who moved in and out of the territory on business. She was the Grand Cleric for those who were mages, within the Gallows and without. Revered Mother Mestura served the sanctuary in the Gallows, with several Sisters and some Templars who were specifically seconded to the sanctuary instead of the Gallows itself. Elthina had worked with Meredith to determine who would be the best possible candidate for that position when the elderly predecessor had died, peacefully in her sleep. Mestura was solid, pedantic, but theologically sound if conservative.

Elthina believed in working together. It was looking, more and more, as though Meredith did not. It was not that the Knight Commander confessed to the Revered Mother now, instead of with Elthina at the Kirkwall Cathedral. It had passed Elthina’s notice, beyond that the woman, Elthina, missed seeing her friend, Merry, as often as she’d once done. When the Knight Commander moved about Kirkwall any more, she was surrounded by a surprising number of Templars. They all were guarded, and why should that shock anyone? Because the amount of armor had increased, and because they now moved like an outside military unit, and because Knight Commander Meredith Stannard did not come to the Chantry anymore unless Elthina had called her for appointment.

Elthina sent requests for meetings, and held them regularly. They were entirely initiated by the Grand Cleric. Oddly, Elthina had more meetings instituted by Orsino than by Meredith, and that usually because the Knight Commander had enraged the Elvhen First Enchanter over some power issue. Meredith’s response to any complaint was that she sought out blood mages, because they were a plague on the city. 

Witness how she’d recruited Hawke to search for a number of mages who’d escaped from the Gallows. One of whom, Emile de Launcet, had turned out not to be a blood mage, and had returned back to the Circle. Sebastian had told the Grand Cleric why the boy had escaped, what he’d been up to during his visit to the city, and how Hawke had dealt with the incident. Sebastian had been trying not to laugh. Elthina had been disturbed. Not just because fornication was frowned upon. Elthina had no frothy romantic illusions that men and women, or even human beings together, would fall in pure love and remain chaste. It was that perhaps Anders was correct. Sex, hasty and unprotected sex, would be abounding in a place like the Circle. Meredith encouraged her Templars to use the Rose and other brothels throughout Kirkwall. Did that increase lustful thoughts? Were the mages being so bound by Meredith's rules that human nature was being bottled tight? If it was, then when would it escape? And would that escape be explosive?

Sebastian had also spoken to Elthina about the other two mages, both lost to blood magic. An Elvhen mage, Huon, who had killed his wife for, as he said, the power to free the Elvhen from poverty, and a foster mother in Darktown, Eveline, a mage who had escaped the Blight and the Kinloch Hold Circle. Who had turned herself in to the Gallows requesting aide for her children. Whose adopted family of Fereldan refugee children had fallen through the cracks at what Anders said was the willful neglect of Meredith Stannard. Elthina had spoken to Meredith about the issue. The Knight Commander had abruptly pointed out that her authority was not over children in Kirkwall unless they had displayed mage powers. That was Elthina's purview and shortcoming. Elthina had given the Order of the Templars instructions that the Chantry was to be notified of any such cases from here on out. There was no way to verify if they were doing so.

Anders. The stone in the shoe of authority here in Kirkwall. Possibly Hawke was a greater stone in Meredith’s mind, but Anders was the one preaching rebellion to authority. Not literally, in the ravings of his Manifesto. At least not anymore, though copies of the work still appeared from the oddest corners of the city state. No, Anders preached resistance to the current state of affairs simply by existing, by being the Mage that those of Darktown sought out, by having friends in just about every place, by being visible. 

Elthina did not think Anders was wrong. She did not believe he was right. She was still the man’s confessor, for what good it did either of them. Elthina supposed she should be happy that she was not dead, and the Chantry destroyed with all it’s people inside. It had been a solid wrench to Elthina when he’d told her his plans, and how Sebastian had stopped the three of them, Anders, Justice, and Vengeance, from cold blooded murder. It hadn't been the Anders she had come to know. Anders was likeable. In much the same way that Sebastian was likeable. And they’d both been through so much bodily harm. Was it possible for Sebastian to plot and plan to destroy in the same manner? After all, he'd asked Hawke to hunt down Flint's company after the death of the royal family of Starkhaven.

It mattered not. Reining the Knight Commander in was now the issue, not paranoia about Sebastian. Meredith saw blood magic everywhere. Not only was it the easy answer when the Grand Cleric asked for reasons behind the increasing number of new rules, but it was intimated that Orsino’s attempts to allow his enchanters some dignity were based in a desire to rule over non-mages with blood magic. Dangerous to become so fixated on one single sin, so that one saw it everywhere, yet not those others swirling about. Rage was a sin as well. That was why there were demons devoted to it.

Sebastian’s suggestion that the mages in the Gallows be recruited to study the foundations of Kirkwall, all that Hawke’s group had discovered, in a bit to mitigate the grounding in blood magery, and help stop the increase in abominations was sound. The Knight Commander would never consider it. Mages in the Gallows were not encouraged to study beyond the accepted practices. As though ignorance was a safeguard. Elthina thought Knight Captain Cullen would consider it, but would not go behind Meredith’s back to bring it about. 

And yes, Elthina was well aware that Cullen had carefully squirreled away the children, the apprentices, and some of the rather gifted mages into the Apprentices Tower. Meredith Stannard was not the only power in Kirkwall that had resources, sources for information aside from the obvious. Elthina just needed to figure out how to prevent the explosion that she could see coming closer and closer. 

Reaching the confessionals, footsteps echoing in the great hallway of the Chantry, the Grand Cleric Elthina of Kirkwall took a cleansing breath and drew the Chant to her, the better to serve her people.

Sister Adele Laurent was out and about in the streets of Lowtown. No longer performing penance with the dregs of society, the Chantry sister expected that she should be grateful for Elthina’s soft touch. Instead she was outraged. Weakness, that and a foolish misunderstanding of the situation in which Kirkwall, and not just Kirkwall - all of Thedas, would soon find itself, were all reasons the Grand Cleric should be speedily removed. By any means necessary.

The Revered Mother she was meeting today had been on her circuit for some time, and had only just come back to Kirkwall. Sister Adele did not notice anyone beyond the two unfamiliar Templars at the entrance to the plain quarters where she usually met the Revered Mother. Kneeling, kissing the ornate ring, working her way through the motions of obedience, Adele was in a hurry to share news.

“Revered Mother,” the sister always sounded out of breath, “Captain Jeven is dead. The Guard Captain, Aveline Hendyr, discovered his meeting place and confronted him. She had Hawke, er, the Champion of Kirkwall with her, and it devolved into a brawl. Jeven died, but he did not give away the source of his backing.”

“Was our aide necessary in removing Jeven once Hendyr and Hawke discovered him?” that cool contralto that Adele would so desire to imitate. Not now, of course, where it could be discovered, but later, when she was rewarded for her faithful service.

“No,” it was stuttered, “Though Hawke noticed that some of the late Captain’s followers had been with Templar Varnell when he purified the Qunari delegation.”

A thoughtful pause, “Hawke noticed?”

Nodding, “And informed Jeven, I’m told. The late Captain was displeased.”

“As he is ‘late’, I’m certain that what displeases him is of no consequence,” that lovely voice went on. “Have the Seekers been seen in Kirkwall recently?”

“No,” emphatic, “Not a word about them.”

“Excellent!” Adele thrilled at the pleasure in the voice. “Sister Adele,” it continued, “How have your visits with the Gallows Sisters gone?”

Broadly smiling the plump sister said, “Well. We share stories of the perfidy of mages, of the dangers of trusting those inhuman creatures, and I have given them the broadsheet of the Uprising in Kinloch Circle on Lake Callendan. I beg your pardon, Revered Mother, but that printing did not seem to come from Ferelden at all. Rather, it looked to be of Orlesian origin.”

Sharp now, “That last bit you will keep to yourself, Sister Adele.”

“Yes, Revered Mother,” humbly, penitently, Adele could do that. 

“Not,” it was less sharp, “That there is anything wrong with such news coming from Orlais. But it might confuse the issue. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly!” Sister Adele practically sang it.

“She understands perfectly” came a singsong in baritone after the Chantry Sister had gone, “and that I highly doubt.”

The Revered Mother leaned back against the steel armored hip seated on the arm of her heavy wooden chair, ‘She suits the purpose to which we have put her. If she truly understood perfectly, then it would be time for her to meet the Maker personally.”

A plated arm reached round to encircle the Revered Mother’s shoulders, “Simply enough done. News from the Gallows?”

“Yes?”

“Meredith has increased recruiting. The need for more members of the Order due to ‘civil unrest’ has also been met with a request from Orlais for more Senior Templars. A pity that we couldn’t take out Hendyr. Martial Law would make it so much simpler,” the deep voice was regretful.

“As the Maker wills,” the woman replied, “and his path is not always easy.”

“No,” the Templar agreed, “But we will overcome all obstacles.”


	12. Lirene and the Fereldans

Lirene had a moment for thought. Not much of one, since the woman disliked wasting time, but a shred of time anyway that was not invested in any project. The influx of Fereldan refugees so many years ago had ebbed, and now the tide was flowing in the opposite direction. People were returning home, praise the Maker and Andraste!

What were they finding at home, though? Not something much she wanted to think on. Blighted lands, towns torn apart by the Civil War, possible infiltration by the Orlesian Chantry in opposition to King Alistair and Queen Anora and their stance on the Circle, the Grey Wardens, and the separation of Chantry and State. King Alistair, Andraste bless him, was a former Templar before being selected by the Grey Wardens. Everyone knew that, and knew that the man was devout. Queen Anora was not so easy to read as the King, but if King Alistair loved her, as he most obviously did, then she must be more than an administrator. Together they worked for the greater good of Ferelden and Fereldans.

Was it enough? Was Lirene sending these people back into chaos and death? Bad enough here, with the dislike of Fereldan Dog Lords. Would the repatriates be considered interlopers? Would they be welcome back home after fleeing for the Free Marches? Or would their flight be considered cowardice and invite retribution?

Here in the shop she still collected supplies, food, household goods, medicines, and aide for those less fortunate who were of Fereldan birth. Those were not all that needed assistance, those of Fereldan birth, but they were the population with whom Lirene was associated. Not the Dalish huddled in the blackness of Darktown, not those who had escaped from the attacks on the Alienage. That in itself was confusing, as many of those Elvhen who supplied muscle for the smugglers, workers for the Docks, and talent for the Coterie were of Ferelden born, but did not claim her aide because of it. She’d not have refused them. But they did not ask, and when Lirene went to them, she was politely and icily rebuffed. They were Elvhen, and Denerim Alienage or no, not Fereldan.

In the end she’d worked around that. Anders, of course. Anders was known not to care what race or nationality came to his door. He’d help just about everyone. Just about, because she’d heard of Carta leaders being refused entrance to the clinic, not because of their positions, but because they’d beaten their spouses or children. Coterie officials had been told that he would not treat assassins or murderers or bully boys who prayed on the people of Darktown. They had their own alchemists and mages for that.

Of course, Anders would always open his doors to the children. Lirene tried not to think of the mage blood she’d directed to him. Frightening, it was. Magic was unnatural, and denounced by the Chantry. It appeared, more and more, in families that had not an ounce of the power until now. Their families had two options, or so Lirene saw it. Give the children to the Gallows, whose very name had portent, or hand them over to Anders, who would send them out to foster with the Mage Underground. Few chose to go with their children into the Underground.

Well, there was a third choice. A good bit of coin could be made selling your kith or kin. Didn’t have to be to slavers, the Carta or the Coterie were happy to indenture children or adults, and that bit of money might be enough to keep a family through the winter, or it might just be a week long binge of drinking. Lirene was of the mind that this was the only time she was grateful to the Maker and Andraste that she’d not borne children.

No children, and a dead husband. Killed in the Blight by Genlocks attacking the farmstead. Lirene had been carried away by Templars struggling to save what little they could. She’d fought, struggled against their metal carapaces at the time. Now, she felt a measure of thankfulness to them. Not enough to turn Anders and his people over to them. But enough that she didn’t lead them into traps by the Mage Underground either.

Lirene smiled at the childlike woman who took care of the store most days now. The back room, filled with bunks and junk furniture, was not as full of the homeless as it had been years agone. Now shelves filled with stock for the store lined one wall. They took in odds and ends. Hawke himself brought in much of their inventory, and Lirene never asked where it came from. The money from sales went into charity, and to keeping Anders’ Free Clinic afloat.

Lirene spent a good portion of her week down there now. Anders was not always available as a healer. There had been a change. Nothing that Lirene could pinpoint beyond that the Healer was more relaxed and less severe. And much less available. Which meant that slack had to be taken in other ways. Anders had trained men and women to work the clinic, so that was a blessing. Lirene had brought in midwives and leeches who arrived in the flow of refugees. No hedge witches. Anders had never allowed them at all, surprising to Lirene considering that he was part of the Mage Underground.

Still and all, magic was limited, and mostly healing was done by the body with use of tinctures and teas, bandages and splints, and general cleanliness. Hawke supplied the clinic with ingredients, Lirene knew, as well as bought potions from the Gallows and Lady Elegant. Most Fereldans did not begrudge Hawke his success, since he tended to share it. He employed men at the Bone Pit, and conditions had improved inspite of the ominous name. And the big bluff fighter was not what most in Kirkwall thought of as nobility either, in spite of the Amell name. 

What would it be like to go home? It was the wonderment of the moment. Ships to the homeland, to Amaranthine and Denerim and other Fereldan ports, left weekly. Lirene could book a passage, and go back to her farm stead in the Bannorn. There were no Genlocks there now, she’d wager. But no Alberic either. Would the land be blighted, or could a widow earn a living tilling the soil in the service of her local Bann? Small fish in a rather large pond, whereas here she was a large fish in a small pond. When did a place become home?

Home. Was Kirkwall home? Mostly Lirene had been urging Fereldans to head back to the country, back to King Alistair’s rule and a land emptied of farmers by flight and monsters. Because here, even though they’d lived her for a decade and their children had been born here, they were still seen as outsiders. It was entirely how you perceived, just as with the Elvhen from the Denerim Alienage. Hawke had told them all about the rumors, the flyers tattered by the wind and littering the alleyways of Lowtown. The Qunari were gone, and the Fereldans were now to blame for every bit gone wrong here in Kirkwall. 

What was his name, that Captain, the one who came after Ewald? Jeven. Captain Jeven. Corrupt and replaced by Aveline. Captain Aveline Hendyr, who did her best by the emigres. In spite of her Orlesian name, she was a Fereldan, and someone they could all look up to. This Captain Jeven had spread his poison and despite, and all because Aveline came from Ferelden. Lirene wasn’t exactly certain where Jeven had come from to begin with. 

So many who owned Kirkwall as their home had been born and bred here. Grand Cleric Elthina, she’d her own worries about the poor, and tried to ensure charity was divided equitably. Kirkwall residents, though, came before refugees. Lirene couldn’t do that, of course, be equitable. Lirene’s concerns were different. Elthina had been born here, had grown up here, and knew so many of the nobility and the middle class. Not so much the poor, not any more.

Meredith Stannard, Commander of the Knights Templar, and for all that Lirene appreciated the Templars, she was not fond of the Knight Commander. Stannard had been born in Kirkwall, as she was very loud in proclaiming. Being from Kirkwall did not make one right. Lirene preferred to deal with the Knight Captain, Cullen, when she had to.

First Enchanter Orsino, now he wasn’t born in Kirkwall, not even in the Alienage here. If Lirene had to guess, he was Denerim born and bred. Not lived in any Alienage for many long years. His agenda, well, the Fereldan activist could not tell. She didn’t trust him as she did Anders. It wasn’t just the magecraft either.

Those five, Hendyr, Elthina, Stannard, Orsino, and Hawke. You’d think that with the addition of the Knight Captain, there would be three, possibly four to two who would favor the Fereldans, but it did not work out that way. Which was not good. Not good at all, considering that Fereldans were becoming a scapegoat again. It had been bad when they’d all first come here, fleeing from the Blight and the Darkspawn. The Qunari had… and Lirene realized she was repeating. Well, what was she going to do?

Looking to the future. What did Lirene see coming? Troubled times, since Stannard was becoming more and more strident in her measures to control the city. Elthina did nothing, or next to it. Orsino was powerless, for all that he didn’t seem to be locked up in the Gallows as so many of the other mages were. Hendyr was trying to please too many masters. And Hawke? 

Gareth Hawke was riding on the knife edge of the wind. Lirene was grateful, no one more so. But the man had a sister in the Gallows, a Dalish lover who was obviously a mage, and had taken the Darktown Healer under his wing. Too much care of mages for someone who was so obviously watched by everyone. Champion of Kirkwall, that meant prisoner here. Lirene had hope at first that the man would be named Viscount right after Dumar’s decapitation. Now she wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy, much less someone she liked so much.

Well, what made Lirene think that times were growing worse? The Chantry, to start. No longer content to be a guide, it was beginning to take an active part in controlling the City State through the Templar Order. Even Orlais was not completely run by the Chantry. The Empress and her court were the civil authority. The Divine was not a temporal authority, it was a religious one. Here, well, the church of the Maker and Andraste had taken over. Or rather, the Templars had.

Citizens were beginning to chafe under Templar rule. Tariffs on goods coming from other countries were a major issue. Protective enough, the need to protect the production of Kirkwall was understood, but those poorly thought out tariffs brought the cost of goods up, and while the nobility could manage purchases, those living down in Lowtown and Darktown could not. Then there were the taxes. Taxes were fine and dandy so long as all were taxed equally. After the Qunari attack the taxes had been raised to fund the rebuilding of the city.

The wealthy, the Nobility, were given relief from some of the taxes if they could prove that their money was going to rebuild parts of the city. Which meant their businesses and homes. Money from Lowtown taxes was being spent on replanting parks in Hightown, while burnt homes were left empty. The Docks, of course, had been rebuilt, but not much between them and Hightown, unless it were the public thoroughfares.

Smuggled goods that might have meant relief from high prices, were harder to come by. The Customs Officers were vigilant and their corruption was less obvious under Guard Captain Hendyr’s watch. Customs also had the combined backing of the Kirkwall Guard and the Templar Order behind them. Lirene had not had a bolt of Fereldan woolen cloth in over a year. Darkspawn had destroyed the flocks, which were now being rebuilt, so it was rare. Starkhaven’s cloth was comparable, but the tariff was so high it was difficult to obtain at a reasonable price. Kirkwall wool was poor.

Guards were watching everyone. Templars were watching everyone. Gangs were watching, and strange things moved in the mist at night. Staying in at night helped with those last, but Lirene could remember stories of old days when Sumptuary Laws were in effect. How long before the Chantry determined that everyone should dress according to station. Which meant that any smuggled goods evident would be seized and turned over to the church. No, Lirene could see a storm rising.

That wasn’t even adding in the whirlwind of the mages and their rights that Anders advocated so freely. To be honest, the man had quietened down somewhat. More and more apostates were appearing in the city, some having escaped from the Gallows, but the Fereldan shopkeeper was not certain where the rest were appearing from. Was it this way in other cities on Thedas? If so, what would happen if everyone became a mage? Or there were more mages than non-mage?

Each time the Templars came searching for Anders, Lirene had to make that decision, would she protect him this time? When would that protection become a liability for her and hers? Would King Alistair’s and Queen Anora’s radical new plans for the Circles work? If they did work, then the Chantry would be mightily upset. Lirene worried that an Exalted March was in the wind. Against Ferelden, and then, would there be another flood of refugees here in Kirkwall, where things were so unbalanced?

Or would the explosion occur here, in the Free Marches? The Starkhaven Circle had been burned. Could that happen here in the Gallows?

Lirene made a decision. Plan for flight, to get as many of her people out as possible. To go where? That would be part of the plan. She’d talk to Anders and Hawke about it, and begin to gather in supplies in case of need. If it proved unnecessary, so much the better.


	13. Anders and his Manifesto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has gone to the trouble to print out a nice copy of Anders Manifesto.

Familiar brown paper appeared in Elthina’s hand from the deep pocket in her sleeve. It startled Sebastian. The request to meet the Grand Cleric in the meditation garden had surprised him as well. “Why are you carrying a copy of Anders’ Manifesto?” It was not as though he didn’t have one himself. Sebastian had studied it, and used it in arguments with the Healer. He had a written dispensation to own a copy of the work, since it was a censored item. Sebastian had written a Commentary upon the work. The Chantry brother knew that Elthina had read both as well.

“Brother Sebastian, I believe you should read this,” Elthina gave him the calm and grave demeanor of a problem that needed to be dealt with immediately.

“I have read it, Elthina,” puzzled, “Difficult to enjoy because of the ranting. Some decent scholarship in spite of hyperbole.”

“I remember your Commentary on it, Sebastian. But I do think that you might want to read the new edition,” irritation had wormed it’s way into the Grand Cleric’s calm, “A printed edition, not manuscript. And I believe that I would like to have a word, or several of them, with our Healer friend. Immediately. I have not seen him since he lost his… Is this what he has turned to upon losing Justice?”

Elthina knew that she had made her point. Sebastian had beautiful blue green eyes, and they were wide at this point in time. His mouth was slack, which would have been amusing if Elthina were not so annoyed. “Read this first, then bring Anders to me in the laundry tomorrow morning. No one will be there this time of the week.”

The book was gone from her hand, and away in the Chantry brother’s sleeve so quickly that Elthina did not see it move. Sebastian gave her a hasty bow, not at all like him, he did so love ritual, and was making his way quickly across the flags and out of the Chantry. Interesting, as Elthina thought he’d go to his cell to read. The Grand Cleric was surprised to find that she was still so very upset. Taking her place at the beginning of the labyrinth, she began to walk the way of prayer.

Not the cell, Sebastian thought, but somewhere private. He made his way to Hawke’s. Bodahn welcomed him, “Serrah Hawke is not at home, Brother Sebastian,” the dwarven equerry was particular about getting Sebastian’s title correct, “But Lady Merrill is in the garden.”

“Bodahn, I am sorry to disturb you, but I need a quiet place, a private one, to read something. May I use Hawke’s library?” and Sebastian was shown into the room. It was silent, no fire at the moment and a bit chilly, and watery light shone through the windows above the shelving. “Just water, thank you,” he responded to Bodahns question about hospitality. A carafe and glass were provided, and the dwarf left, closing the door behind him.

The cover was as expected. Brown, with wood block letters proclaiming the “Manifesto of Mages’ Rights by a Citizen of Thedas concerned with Justice”. Anders had not been fool enough to ever put his name, or what they used as his name, on his work. It made sense to present Justice’s name, as he was a prime motivator, or possibly component. The original had been manuscript, with Anders’ cramped writing, but the cover was unbleached thick paper, dark brown with black lettering done in wood cuts instead of lead type. The outside was worn, and there was no trace of writing on the inside of the cover. So, not a personal copy of the work. Did anyone own a personal copy of this work? Certainly it would be a Chantry offense to own the book, as it had been censored by the Church in Orlais. Sebastian’s dispensation had been because of the censorship, but also because his vow of poverty meant he could not own property. All books other than his complete Chant were the property of the Chantry, not his own.

This professionally printed book was also lighter, seemed thinner than Anders’ regular work. Sebastian thought that might be because of the printing. Manuscript filled more space than hand printing, and even more than that created with movable type. Sebastian knew that the Healer strove to include all logical reasoning behind his premise. If anything, later editions had been thicker, heavier, than the first. Anders had used his arguments with Fenris and the Chantry brother to hone his own premise.

The opening paragraph was a blessing upon all who cared for those downtrodden, especially apostates fleeing from the Templar Order. The second paragraph was a call to war. Bloody war, the mages against the Chantry and all who would oppress them. Where Anders’ writing, while filled with purple prose, laid out the logic for a free society of mages, including passages of the Chant of Andraste to provide theistic support, this ranting called for battle using any means necessary to rebel and destroy the dictatorship of the Chantry.

Sebastian let the book drop into his lap. When he realized that time had passed and he’d no notion of how long, he poured a glass of water, drank it, and then lifted the book to finish reading it completely. Standing, he went to the door, opened it, and called for Bodahn. “May I have a pen, ink, and paper, please? And would it be permitted to use Hawke’s desk?”

Yes, of course, Brother Sebastian. When the supplies arrived, they came with a plate of food, and a pot of tea. They were ignored as the Chantry brother sat down and began to take apart the rhetoric he had been reading. He was deep in thought when Sandal came in to light the lanterns, and did not notice the further passing of time until the library door banged open to reveal Hawke with a huge armful of wood. The man made no attempt to be silent as he dropped the fuel on the hearth and began to arrange a fire. Hawke did not speak either, until the fire had caught and he sat back on heels to watch it burn. “Supper in half an hour, Sebastian. You can tell us what’s going on then, or wait until after the meal.”

Sebastian nodded. “We will need Anders,” he made it a statement, not a request. One does not invite others even to a friend’s home. Hawke made a sound rather like his mabari, climbed to his feet and went out. Sebastian returned to finish the list he was compiling.

Dinner was eel pie, eaten at the kitchen table. Sebastian could smell it before he entered the room, and his mouth watered at the memory of pies past. Hawke laughed at the expression. “Orana went down to the Fish Market at the Docks as soon as Bodahn told her you were here, and not like to be leaving anytime soon. A Starkhaven delicacy is it? I know I never saw it anywhere in Ferelden.”

“Orana, you are a jewel,” Sebastian breathed in above the steaming slice that Hawke served him.

“Gluttony, gluttony,” teased the big fighter as he served himself a truly huge piece.

Sebastian forked a bite and closed his eyes in pleasure, “The Maker wishes us to be thankful in all times and places, in all events. Orana,” he looked over to the blushing Elvhen maid, “The Maker himself would love this pie!”

That salley inspired a giggle, and Sebastian felt rewarded as he worked his way through that and another slice of the savory. Merrill, he was surprised to see, ate almost as much in the way of the eel as Hawke, though she handed over the crust to her lover. The meal, Hawke and Merrill on one side of the table, Sandal and Orana on the other, Bodahn and Sebastian at head and foot, felt reassuring, family like in a way different from Sebastian’s life in Starkhaven, or in the Chantry. 

As Bodahn and Sandal cleared the plates Hawke took the seat at the head of the table, straddling a backwards chair, “Now, what’s going on?”

Orana flitted about the big open room and began to heat water for washing. There was noise all about as she and the Dwarves cleared and cleaned. Sebastian pulled his notes and the book from his sleeves and handed the book over to the Champion. “Anders’ Manifesto?” Hawke’s voice was never quiet, but it did cut through the kitchen noise. There were glances over shoulders, but the three did not stop their work. Merrill climbed onto the table, perching on the corner to read around Hawke’s shoulder. 

Sebastian waited, not patiently, but quietly. “This is very different from Anders’ writing, isn’t it?” Merrill asked confused. 

“This,” Sebastian pointed out, “Is nothing like Anders’ writing.”

Hawke looked up at Merrill, “It’s not what Anders wrote before in his Manifesto. I read that to you, remember?”

“My apologies, Merrill, you do not read?” Sebastian asked abashed.

“Oh,” Merrill waved a thin, scarred hand, “I read well enough. Not so well nor so quickly as you, Hawke, Anders, and Fenris.”

A nod, then, “It has been printed, of course, by movable type. Not the Chantry press, which would of course have printed the Chantry symbol on the back. Not that the Chantry press would publish anything like this at all. Anders’ Manifesto has been banned by the Divine. The type of the Kirkwall Chantry has distinctive marks on some of the typefaces. I don’t recognize that here.”

“And the words,” Hawke repeated, “Are not the same. This is not anything that Anders would write, Merrill.”

Merrill ran a petite finger down the cover of the book, “This looks the same.”

“That,” Sebastian agreed, “is the same. I believe that they took a cover from Anders’ original manifesto, and bound it to the new book.”

“How many,” Hawke asked with his brow furrowed in thought, “Manifestos did Anders get bound?”

Sebastian laughed, “I have no idea. How many of them has Fenris burned?”

Merrill was somber, “Fenris and the Gallows.”

With a joint cracking sigh Hawke said, “We need to tell Anders. Why did you come here, Sebastian? Why not do all this in the Chantry?”

“Elthina is upset,” Sebastian supplied, “She gave this to me. I do not know where she got it, but she’s asked to meet with Anders at the Chantry tomorrow morning.”

“Sandal,” called Hawke, “Would you please go with a message to the Clinic and ask Anders to join us?”

Sandal did not speak much. He gave a glance at Sebastian, bobbed a bow, and ran off, still dressed in an apron from washing the dishes. Hawke looked back at Sebastian, “This might be another trap, Sebastian. In fact, I’d be willing to bet it is.”

“I am aware. If it is, then the trap is for Elthina, not just Anders,” Sebastian thought he did not sound as worried as he felt.

“She’s the Grand Cleric, Sebastian,” Hawke scoffed, “What harm could this do to her?”

The Chantry Brother opened his mouth, “Hawke,” but closed it on the scathing words that tried to come out. When the words did come, they were calmer, “Enjoying the politics of being Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke?”

Hawke shut his mouth immediately. Merrill laughed, then made a face at Sebastian, “He is still not Viscount, if that is what you were asking.”

That brought a growl from the big fighter. “Nor desiring to be so,” he pointed out. “Would you be happy if I were trapped into the Viscount’s position? You would be required to meet with nobility, and not be wandering into the Chantry gardens at any time of night or day.”

“Hawke,” the Dalish woman sounded entirely too reasonable, “They would never allow you to present me. Even if we were married, an Elvhen wife, let alone a Dalish one, would be entirely too scandalous!”

Anders burst into the room, “Hawke? What’s happened?” He was carrying his linen bag of sundries, his staff strapped to his back, and clearly expecting trouble.

Sebastian and Merrill looked to Hawke. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, “Anders, we think there might be a problem with your Manifesto.” Perhaps not the most tactful way to introduce the topic.

The rest of the discussion took place in the Library in front of a large, warm fire. Orana, of course, brought out the rest of the eel pie for Anders, but he, for once, was he ignoring food as the mage strode back and forth across the carpet, Hawke, Sebastian, and Merrill watching. “Andraste’s Knicker Weasels,” was the least of the curses flying through the air. 

So far as Sebastian could tell at this moment, the Healer was more angry that someone had stolen his work and presented something totally opposite in it’s place than that this was the opening move in an attack upon Anders and Elthina. When the Chantry brother attempted to bring this up there was a further explosion, “Blood Magic, Sebastian! They’re advocating blood magic, and pretending to be me! I want to blow them all up with a thousand blighted fireballs! But the issue is that they have stolen the work I did on the Manifesto and made it disappear!”

“Yes,” Sebastian pointed out, “They stole your work. Is that more important? This is a trap. And rampant fireballs would be something they would appreciate you doing to prove their point.”

“Point of it,” Hawke chimed in, “Proving their point exactly, I should think.”

Anders stopped for a moment. “Hawke. Why are you sitting in that chair? You look uncomfortable. Either take the sofa or the floor so that I don’t have to heal your back again.”

Sebastian, who had not noticed Hawke’s posture in the carved wooden chair stood immediately, and moved to a spindly Orlesian confection masquerading as furniture. Hawke gave an irritated growl before stretching out on the sofa, where he returned to watching Anders roam up and down the room.

The spirit mage stopped, suddenly, and whirled, “Does Elthina truly think that I wrote this?”

“Elthina thinks that you have been avoiding her since splitting from Justice,” Sebastian stated.

“Busy. Been busy, Sebastian, and not of the mood to discuss it. Not since I can’t blighted find Justice anywhere in the Fade around Kirkwall!” 

Hawke sat up, “You haven’t seen Justice since the ritual?”

“No,” shouted Anders, “I can’t find him. You knew that Hawke. You went up to Sundermount with me. And the Wounded Coast. So has Sebastian.”

“I guess,” Hawke’s big voice was slow, “I hadn’t thought about it. I was just more worried that you were alright.”

It was at this moment that Merrill inserted herself into the conversation, “I think that Justice is at the Gallows.” Her voice might be piping like a flute, but the statement dropped like a piece of granite.

“The Gallows?” Sebastian asked, “Why the Gallows?” Turning from the Dalish woman he looked at Anders. “Why the Gallows, Anders?”

Anders glared at Merrill, then threw himself down into Hawke’s vacated chair. “The Gallows is crawling with spirit activity. Merrill and I were looking from the roof of the Hanged Man. It’s huge, bigger in the Fade, I think, than in Thedas. There are demons,” Merrill murmured “first children” but Anders spoke over her, “and spirits crawling all over the outside. It doesn’t look as though they can get inside the building, but to know more I’d need to be in the Gallows to look.”

Hawke opened his mouth, closed it, then started again, “Bethany?”

“Bethany should be safe, Hawke. The mages are being protected,” Anders fought to keep the bitterness from his tone.

“No, Anders, Bethany can help. She can look for Justice, can’t she?” Hawke’s basso voice was clearly being patient.

“Oh,” it was a small sound. One of absolute shock. Then, “Bethany can look for Justice.”

Sebastian gave it thought, “Hawke, how do you get messages to Bethany? I thought that the Knight Commander was keeping your notes from getting through?”

Anders answered for Kirkwall’s Champion, “One of Lirene’s assistants has a third cousin who transports green groceries to the kitchens there. One of the apprentices in the scullery takes the notes to Bethany.”

Head shaking, Sebastian mused, “I should not be so amazed at the lengths to which you two will go.”

“More importantly, the question is,” Hawke pointed out, “what the trap is, and how we can set it off without getting caught within.”

“I think there are quite a few questions, Hawke, and that’s one that we might not want to set off at this time,” Sebastian pulled out the sheaf of papers he’d been writing on. “I have compiled a list.”

Anders, who had been staring into the fire, considering Bethany and what aide she might give them, laughed. “Of course you have, Sebastian. Well, add one thing to your list. We need to find out who the bastard is who defaced my work. I want to set his small clothes on fire. Discretely.”

Sebastian held out the papers, which Anders leaned over and accepted. “You are going to make me read out your list, aren’t you?” At the Chantry brother’s nod Anders looked at the top sheet, “1. Find the printer. 2. Using that knowledge, find out who funded the printing. 3. Track down whoever is behind this. 4. Collect all printed copies of this mess. 5. Destroy them.

Well,” consideringly, “It is a very good list, Sebastian. Thank you.”

Merrill asked, “How many printers are there in Kirkwall?”

“Quite a few,” Sebastian told her, “But we have an expert.”

“Who would that be?” Anders asked with interest.

In reply Sebastian stood and paced to the shelving, looked along it, until he found a particular volume. Pulling the book from the shelf, Sebastian held out “Hard Times in Hightown” to the Healer, who breathed out, “Varric! Of course!”


	14. Hard Times at the Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is, of course, the man to go to when you're asking about the Printed Word.

Varric Tethris, Kirkwall-renowned author, member in somewhat dubious standing of the Kirkwall Merchant’s Guild, and raconteur was holding forth to the crowd in the common room of the Hanged Man. What was there not to love about the place? There was the smell of salt and tar from the dock workers, bitter metallics from the miners visiting from the Bone Pit, the whiff of incense from a visiting Templar, the faint musky half taste in the air of the single Tal Vashoth , Maraas, standing against the wall, and of course the effluvia of humanity and Elvhanity and so forth. Tethris was usually the only Dwarf at the bar. Dwarves, whether merchants or Carta members or visitors from Orzammar, tended to prefer drinking, or just living, among their own kind. Overriding all those scents was Corff’s rat based stew and the essence of spilled beer. Glorious!

When Varric spoke the grumble of background conversation tended to disappear as he wove his tales of the Champion of Kirkwall and his companions. When Varric sat in the corner nursing a beer or hard cider, he listened to the tales of the inhabitants of his home, the grand and glorious Free Marcher city of Kirkwall. Orzammar and the Deep Roads did not appeal. Why would anyone choose to live anywhere else?

Tonight after his grand retelling of Hawke and the Dragon of the Bone Pit, Varric was sitting by the small heating stove in the corner, nursing an ale and watching the flirtations at the bar, the man in the other corner who had drunk himself into a stupor, and the interesting and possibly intriguing military man at a table with some hired thugs, attempting to fit in. This one had come in after Varric’s story, his loss, and there was a niggling bit that told Varric he did not belong here. If anything, Varric would have thought you’d prevent your hirelings from drinking to excess. Unless you were gearing them up to make a noisy example of someone, or decoy the guard away from some not quite legal business proposition.

Varric’s fertile imagination gave him plots and characters and so much more. But Kirkwall, there was nothing more creative than the city when the chaos rained down. Speaking of chaos, Isabela appeared out of the shadows to whisper in his ear. Hawke, not the most subtle of men, had come in the back and was waiting for him in Varric’s palatial suite. Interesting. Very interesting.

Just in the case that the big, plotting man was involved in something Hawke was interested in stopping, best to retreat stealthily. While he was not in Isabela’s league so far as vanishing into the shadows, let it not be said that Varric Tethris was unable to sneak out. Luckily the stairs were close by his table, and as Corff walked through the room to wipe tables the Dwarf took advantage of his larger human body to block the line of sight to the steps. 

Up the stairs, closing the door behind to minimize eavesdropping, his greeting was expansive, “Hawke! What brings you to my palatial suite, through the back door of all things?”

Hawke’s grin, broad, white teeth under a brushy black mustache, that muscular arm raised in hail, “Varric! We’re in need of your knowledge!”

Interesting. Choir boy and Blondie were with him, but no one else. Not Daisy, who was a semi-permanent fixture these days. Isabela hadn’t stuck around either. “Well, you’ve come to the right place for information! What can I help you with?” After all, knowledge might be expensive, but worth sharing to keep the Champion of Kirkwall going. Friendship was important, of course, but so was Hawke’s growing importance in Kirkwall’s power structure. Hawke, Stone and Maker and whatever you wished to believe in bless him, kept the city from crumbling with his forays into the dark unsafe streets at night.

Blondie was looking as sour as Varric had ever seen the mage during the Justice days. The Choir Boy was holding a book out to Varric, a familiar looking volume, and not one that Tethris had ever found the least bit interesting. “I see you have one of Blondie’s ‘Manifesto’s. Not really interested. Sorry, Blondie.”

The blonde mage ground his teeth and held his tongue. This from a man who flew off the handle, or babbled yet, at the slightest provocation. That was very interesting. “Varric,” it was Sebastian speaking, “Would you take a look at this and see if you can tell us who the printer is? And where we could find them?”

Alright. Something wrong here. “Everything alright, Anders?” Varric asked as he took the book in his hand.

“Someone has stolen my work, Varric,” it was gritted out. The mage was an unhappy one, and it was unlike him not to make some goofy quip at an inappropriate time. Not unless he was glowing blue, and he didn’t do that at all these days.

Tethris sat at his place before the table, smoothed the cover with broad, skilled hands, and began to page through. “Ah,” it was a notification that he recognized the cover did not belong with the work within. Sewn instead of the cheap glue that Anders had been able to afford. Or that Justice had allowed to be rationed out of the Healer’s meagre funds. Vivid and badly written prose without Anders’ references to scholarly sources. No need to read more than the first page, if it was all like this. Anders might be working to incite others, but not in the manner of these words. “Not my printer. But I can find out who did print it.”

Hawke banged a hand on the stout surface of their Wicked Grace table. “We’re looking for a lot more than who did the printing, Varric. You should appreciate it. Someone is plotting.” And that person would not like what would happen if Hawke got hold of him or her by the feral look gracing those all too famous features.

“You got it, Hawke! I’ll take a visit round the Printers’ Alley tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think there will be loud and raucous behavior in the street tonight. A big, disguised… Templar, I think, is feeding Corff’s worst rotgut to a gang of Lowtown’s finest lowlifes.”

There came the excited ‘I’ve just been given a present’ look from the man ostensibly responsible for maintaining the safety of the city! “Is Isabela still around?” Hawke’s face was absolutely gleeful. It was Anders who stood and fetched the Rivaini. Varric knew he’d spent time in the woman’s room, which was now mostly limited to Fenris. Medical reasons, he thought, or the aftermath of Justice? The Dwarven storyteller did not think that Blondie had shared that big bed. Broody was not the type to share, and the Rivaini had gotten territorial lately as well.

“Isabela!” Hawke was enthusiastic in his welcome, as the dark woman seated her rear on the carved wooden arm of the huge chair Varric kept for the Champion. Daisy never seemed to mind the arm slung round Hawke’s neck, or the affectionate buss on the cheek. The big rogue accepted it without any hesitation either. “Would you like to follow someone tonight? Find out where he’s headquartered?”

“And I would be doing this for what reason?” that purr. It meant that she’d be more than likely to do it for Hawke, of course.

“Well,” the big man frowned more in concentration than anything else, “Because I need to know what he’s up to. And I would like to know where he’s getting the money to destabilize Kirkwall.”

There it was. Any possible moment that Varric might think that Gareth Hawke was nothing more than a muscle bound hulk, and the man proved to have a brain behind that handsome face. “Rivaini, you know that there’s always treasure involved when Hawke tracks down evildoers!”

“But not tonight though!” ah the killjoy spoke. Sebastian was so very, awfully earnest. “Isabela, someone is setting a trap for Anders. We are trying to find all the threads for the spiderweb before we set it off. And,” those blue eyes sparkled at the woman, “all of the exits.” Appealing to Isabela’s roguish nature was a good ploy.

Anders was silent. “Aren’t you going to chip in here, Blondie?” Varric was nothing if not an instigator, “Some comment on Isabela’s finer features?”

Shaking off his black mood the blonde mage gave a charming smile to the room, “I just want to throw fireballs. Hawke won’t let me.”

“Yet,” Hawke rumbled. Choir boy was giving the Champion a look of disapproval. “Come on, Sebastian,” Hawke laughed, “You know there will be a fight. There always is.”

Anders leaned back in his carved seat, smaller by far than Hawke’s. Holding up a hand they watched as flame lit the tips of those long fingers. Varric watched the byplay between them. Hawke ignoring the flirtation with magic, he was comfortable with it’s use. Sebastian, even after spending so much time with the Spirit Mage, was obviously startled. Justice, Varric remembered, had not wasted mana on idle magic. Looking away, the Chantry brother took a deep breath and repeated what was most likely the Chant under his breath. Anders glanced Sebastian’s way, then caused a small ball of the flame to roll along the top of his finger tips. “I promise not to destroy the city, Sebastian,” it was chiding, but gentle. Was Blondie reminding the servant of Andraste that there was control there? That magic would not harm him?

“So,” Varric asked, “Where did you find this?” he gestured at the book lying now on the table.

“Elthina had it,” Sebastian said shortly. Ah, so all was not well in the paradise of the Chantry.

This made things interesting. “You think the trap is not just for Anders?” Varric could be blunt.

Sebastian nodded, “I think someone is after Elthina. It’s not the Knight Commander, she isn’t this subtle. And Meredith doesn’t need this to justify her attitude toward the mages.”

A snort there. “Attitude, Maker! Imprisonment. Persecution! We should call a stone a stone, Sebastian!”

Before the bickering could get too far Varric showed Isabela to the Common room. They took time to watch the disguised man. Well, one of many men in the room who could be considered to be ‘disguised’, but the man in whom Varric had become interested. “Don’t try and pick his pocket, Rivaini. I have a feeling that there’s more going on here. Wouldn’t want to explain to Fenris that we’d found your body in the Harbor.”

“Sweetness,” that low, amused tone, “I am currently fine with regard to funds. And I am not stupid.”

A cocked eyebrow received a kiss before his friend faded out of his sight. Varric was good, but he was not that good. Momentarily he wondered if Sebastian had ever been able to manage that trick. No, Sebastian Vael actually engaging in stealth was beyond imagining, even for Varric Tethras. 

The bickering was continuing at a slower pace when he returned to his spot at the table. “Rivaini’s off. So, is this another rogue Chantry Sister, do you think? Or have the blood mages gotten hold of more Templars?”

Hawke, ignoring the argument ongoing between Sebastian and Anders answered, “Petrice is dead, and good riddance. Varnell as well. Though we did see a number of Varnell’s minions in the altercation with Jeven. Have I told you about that?”

No, he hadn’t. And yes, he did. With florid commentary and wild gestures the Champion of Kirkwall, who would never make a storyteller began. Sebastian and Anders stopped their grumbling at each other and listened, asking questions and making comments. Norah brought them drinks, and notification when the party of interest at the table had broken up, the ruffians gathering themselves to leave.

Hawke, Varric, Sebastian, and Anders were ready for them, watching as they left the Hanged Man, and waiting to follow. A large enough group of half drunken men, wandering the streets of Lowtown, that was suspicious. Hawke was the only one among them who was not particularly quiet. Varric did not think that a stampeding bronto would have been noticed by the nicely oiled bravos staggering toward the Forge district.

The patrol of Kirkwall’s Guard handled them quite well. Brennan, Varric remembered her from Aveline’s stories, and her fellow guards were attacked. Shouts about Fereldan Dog Lords, and taking back the streets for Kirkwall were nothing much to worry about. The four men stayed back and watched, in spite of Anders itching to cast, and Hawke’s need to be in the thick of things. What happened after that battle was suspect.

The gangs of Kirkwall had been including more and more blood magic since the Qunari had fled. Brennan’s people, already weary from the previous attack, we blindsided by one of the gangs, and at a distinct disadvantage. Hawke charged in, without a word of warning. Of course, Bianca was ready and able to take several of the thralls out, and Blondie was quite handy with his fireballs. Sebastian’s bow rivaled Bianca for accuracy. 

Brennan was grateful. Hawke was all grinning Champion, but then excused his party. “If they’re targeting the Guard tonight, it won’t just be Brennan’s patrol, and it won’t just be Lowtown,” he said. The rest of the night, long hours of it, was spent roaming through Kirkwall, ensuring the safety of the Guard Patrols. Varric couldn’t have written a more noble scenario if his life depended on it!


	15. Hawke Takes Charge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night the rats come out to play...

Blood flowed in the gutters of Kirkwall. Probably not good, that. Hawke took a gasping breather, whirling the two-handed blade to flick spatters of red about. “All good there, Hawke?” came from the darkness where Varric picked his way through a dead man’s clothes. 

“Maker!” the big man exclaimed, “I was not expecting to be re-enacting the battle of Ostagar in the streets of Kirkwall tonight!”

A snort from nearby, and a flare of light from the top of a staff, “Blood mages? Or Darkspawn? Both bad, Hawke, but I think it’s best not to wish for an overwhelming horde of Darkspawn.”

“Truth!” Hawke laughed, “Have we lost Sebastian?”

“Here, Hawke,” as Varric was rifling through pockets, Sebastian was retrieving arrows. “I’ve replaced my bowstring twice, and am down to a dozen arrows. Where do we go to next?”

“I think,” Hawke tilted his head to listen, “I hear fighting up near the Chantry court.”

“Hold on,” Anders stopped them all, “Does anyone need healing? Yes, granted these bodies have holes in them, but even if they were still clinging to life I’m not wasting mana on blood mages. Do you Hawke, or Varric, or Sebastian, have any gaping wounds in your bodies?”

“No time,” and Hawke was off up the wide stone stairway toward the sound of battle echoing in the darkness.

Cries, metal clashing, grunts of impact and effort, and then the flash of lyrium blue arched through the darkness. An impatient curse from their leader as he entered the fray to guard the back of Fenris, the Elvhen fighter no longer outnumbered. Well, technically they were all outnumbered, but Hawke was certain they would prevail. Anders cry, profane and consigning blood mages to the Void, echoed as a fireball flew out to blast a female blood mage, directing her thralls to swarm the lagging fighters.

Sebastian used and lost the last of his arrows. Dropping his bow and drawing paired daggers the Chantry brother danced into the fray, seeking to keep out of Bianca’s way as Varric targeted spellcasters. Best to leave the bullies in thrall to the busy combinations of blades flashing in the moonlight.

Once they joined Fenris in the fight it did not last much longer. Four of the five friends sat in line along the steps leading up to the Chantry in the darkness. Panting breaths began to calm as they sat with hacked and burned corpses littering the court in front of them. “Andraste’s Knicker Weasels, Varric! Leave off and sit with us!” Anders shouted into the darkness.

“Just one more, and then I’m done,” came the amused response from the beardless dwarf. 

“So, Hawke,” the deep and quiet tones of the Elvhen asked, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”  
Hawke’s voice though deeper, in contrast was booming in the darkness, “There seems to be an epidemic of violence tonight. Centered on the Guard, if you can believe it. We’ve been out sweeping the streets from the Docks to Hightown. Lost count of how many we’ve taken out.”

Anders’ tenor sounded, “Varric will be able to tell you. Just divide by ten when he does.” The light from his staff faded, and he joined them in the darkness of the Chantry steps.

“Calumny!” Varric called as he appeared from the deeper shadows, “Lies and slander! My counts are always accurate!”

Sebastian smiled. He was not close enough in friendship to the Dwarf to joke about this. Anders managed instead, “Yes, as I said, accurate and then multiplied by ten!”

The Dwarf heaved himself down onto the step with a huff, “Be glad that Bianca is precise. You’d have lost your head to one of those thralls!”

“Not complaining, Varric,” Anders jibed, “Just calibrating for correct information.”

Fenris’ calm broke through, “You’ve been fighting all night then?” He did not talk loudly, but they knew to listen when he did speak.

Hawke sprawled backward with a groan, his metal plate clanging against the steps. “It has been so long that I have forgotten what it was like to sit at a table and relax.When was that eel pie, Sebastian?”

“Eel pie?” Anders moaned, “I am so desperately starving!”

Hawke pointed out, “You ignored it when Orana brought you half a pie. I know you were upset, but that was ridiculous.”

“You still have not told me why you are here?” came from Fenris.

Hawke, staring up at the stars above Kirkwall, framed by high stone walls, commented, “You haven’t told us why you were outside dancing with blood mages either, Fenris.”

“I was bored,” Fenris said, “So I went for a walk.”

“Found more than you bargained for?” asked Sebastian.

“Oh, no. I found exactly what I expected. What part of bored did you not understand, Sebastian?” and they heard the grin in his voice through the darkness.

“Something is going on,” Hawke declared to the sky above Kirkwall.

“Something is always going on, Hawke,” answered Varric.

“Alright,” and Hawke heaved himself up to a sitting position. No mean feat with that amount of steel on his body. “There is a plot to frame Anders for blood magic. There is a plot to involve Elthina as well. My guess is that they want to discredit her. Then there was the attack on the Kirkwall Guard patrols tonight. I’m not sure they’re related though. If they were, wouldn’t the timing have been better?”

“Anders and blood magic?” Fenris asked, “Blood magic and not abomination or murder?”

“My Manifesto,” the Healer began to be interrupted by Varric.

“The Manifesto has been printed, only Blondie didn’t write a word of what’s inside it now. Mostly rabble rousing and discontent, but definitely calling for blood. As in blood magic, not just slitting throats in the street,” Varric looked sideways at Hawke. Features were not visible, but they were also unnecessary, “That about sum it up, Oh mighty Champion of Kirkwall?”

“My Manifesto,” came the outraged tenor only to be cut off by Hawke.

“That’s about it, Varric. You read the Manifesto, didn’t you, Fenris?”

The was a pause, “Yes. I did not agree with it, but I did read it. And discussed it with Anders and Sebastian. You are saying that it is even more rabble rousing than what Justice and Anders wrote?” 

“Blight take you all!” Anders wasn’t shouting, but he was close, “A decade of work, and it’s gone and replaced by blasphemy!”

“Relax, Blondie,” Varric yawned, “We’ll get it sorted out.”

Hawke’s posture straightened, “Someone’s coming.”

Silence, or what passed for it in the Kirkwall night. There were sounds of revelry from down the way, in all probability from the Rose’s customers. Otherwise marching, booted feet were moving toward them, up the steps they had climbed to reach this court. Light flickered, so lanterns were being used. A familiar voice, Donnic Hendyr, “Bodies here as well, Captain.”

“Donnic, and you three check for signs of life. The rest of you keep an eye out. We don’t want any more surprises,” it was Aveline.

The movement that Hawke made was slow and deliberate, a scrape of his armored boot against the stone. All attention fastened on the steps, and the metal slides of the lanterns focused the light on the males sitting on the steps. “Aveline,” Hawke greeted her.

“Hawke,” it was relieved, “I might have known I’d find you still out tonight.”

“Did Brennan and her patrol make it back safely?” Hawke had been concerned.

Space was made next to their leader, and Aveline dropped into it with a sigh, leaning her shield at their feet, “She did. So did the others you sent back, a little the worse for wear. Hawke, what is going on?”

“Varric,” it was said with humor, “Discovered a plot to cause havoc with the guard tonight. So we’ve been out helping.”

Aveline sounded as though she’d swallowed vinegar, “You might have given me a heads up. It’s my duty to defend the city, Hawke.”

“Hey, Champion of Kirkwall! Doing my part!” Hawke’s laugh must have been welcome, for Aveline’s sigh in response was tired, but relieved.

Varric put in, “Aveline, if I’d known ahead of time what we were following, I’d have sent a runner. As it was, we just knew a gang of thugs were up to no good. One suspicious, well, highly suspicious, man in disguise frequenting the Hanged Man does not mean I need to interfere. At least, not most of the time.”

“I can’t do my job if you keep things from me,” Aveline began. Donnic joined them, greeting all and then standing at parade rest.

“Captain,” her husband and second in command reported, “All dead. Blood mages like the others that attacked the Patrol in the Hightown Market square. Same gang tags. Mostly sword and missile wounds, some signs of mage activity. Guess the blood mages must have accidentally hit each other with spells.”

“Oh, really?” Anders said dryly, “Thank you so much, Donnic.”

“We missed some?” Hawke asked indignantly, “Aveline how many did you kill in the Market?”

“A good two dozen,” Aveline said tiredly, “And you don’t get to make me feel guilty for taking some action of my own, Hawke!”

“No, I would guess not,” the big fighter stretched, and the Guard Captain had to dodge the steel plated arms. Hawke’s smile was only visible in the darkness because the lantern light flashed off his strong teeth. “Aveline, I would like for you to go with me tomorrow morning to pay a little visit to Elthina.”

“Hold on, Hawke,” Sebastian said, “My instructions were to bring,” he caught himself, “another was requested.”

“And that other is not going,” there was a loud protest from Anders, “Not the way we’ll tip this trap open, Sebastian. I know you’re bound to follow Elthina’s orders. I, on the other hand, am not. And I am responsible for the safety of my people. Aveline and I will go with you to meet with Elthina. Is that understood, Anders?”

“I am an adult, Hawke. I can go where I will,” Anders was seething, and it was, of course, audible. The man never could disguise his emotions. Which was exactly why he was not going with Hawke in the morning. Well, later this morning.

Hawke stood, reached down and hauled the blonde mage by his feathery shouldered coat. Speaking quietly, Hawke could do so when he wanted, but it was an effort, “You are coming with me to the mansion, where Orana will feed you, and then you will go to bed in the guest room. Someone is targeting you. You are not going anywhere. Do you understand, Anders?”

Hawke did not often take that tone with any of them. Anders had heard it a few times, mostly when Justice wanted action that Hawke deemed inadvisable. Anders flushed face was invisible in the darkness, “I understand. But Hawke, I can’t hide behind you. Whoever is doing this will know I’d go to you.”

“Yes. Think how predictable that makes them,” that grin, hidden from the lanterns behind him, could not be seen, but they all knew it was there. Hawke pulled Anders closer, and spoke only to him, “You have been avoiding Elthina since Justice left. Now is not the time for you to have a cozy chat.” Hawke felt Anders nod his head in acquiescence, if not agreement.

“In any case,” Hawke gestured up at the sky, “Dawn is about to descend, which means that the Templars our good Knight Commander sends to help the Guard in the daytime will be arriving soon. I don’t think there will be anymore problems with the gangs tonight.”

They looked over to where Aveline’s Guard troop were now stacking bodies off to the side for pickup later. At least in this way they’d not be visible when the vendors came to set up for a day’s work. “I,” Aveline sounded exhausted, “see your point, Hawke. What time do you want me to meet you here to see Elthina?”

“I’ll send Sandal when I know. But you’re welcome, all of your people are, to come and breakfast with us. We will have more than enough,” Hawke seemed anxious not to leave the common guards out of his invitation.

That was refused, gratefully, on the grounds that more than a few bodies needed to be taken care of before business as usual began for the day. The others, however, Anders, Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, and Hawke, took their leave to walk down to Hawke’s home. Merrill was awake when they arrived, but Isabela had still not returned when Hawke and Sebastian readied themselves to meet with the Grand Cleric.


	16. After the Night Comes the Dawn.  And then the Day

Anders did not sleep on for very long. An asset of the Grey Wardens in time of Blight is enhanced abilities. The smell of cinnamon, clove, and buttery warmth pulled the mage from the Fade, where he had been playing cards with shadowy figures of the Dreamers. Whoever they were, Hightown nobles perhaps, Anders was winning. Wicked Grace with Isabela and Varric had sharpened the scruffy blonde mage’s skills, but not to that extent, for Andraste’s sake! Of course, the coins that melted away as amber brown eyes opened to the dim whiteness of Hawke’s guest room’s ceiling would have been of great use to the Clinic. 

Anders was sad that he was not in love with Orana. Otherwise he’d marry her and guarantee a well fed future. His stomach gurgled. “Traitor,” his tenor sounded loud in the empty room. “You had eel pie only a few hours ago.”

Anders’ stomach had a few choice words to say back to the mage regarding regular meals and enjoying life, and why was Anders still in the bed and not downstairs in the kitchen?

The Healer gave it up as a bad job. Pulling on the clean smalls, tunic, and trousers laid out for him, the soft clean, mended stockings last. The mage scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, then pulled blonde hair back into his traditional tail, and shuffled down the stairs to find the kitchen.

Echoing emptiness greeted him, but a towel covered plate waited upon his discovery. It took a finger of flame to heat the kettle, and Anders, unnerved by the unusually empty house, carried his honeyed tea and the plate of cookies into the library. It was the work of a moment to set up logs and start them alight. 

Thinking he might reread his actual Manifesto, and knowing he’d hidden at least one in this room. Anders located it on the shelf, next to a printed volume labeled “Commentaries on the Manifesto”. A pause. Long, trained fingers pulled the book, published by the Chantry he noticed. 

Nicely bound. Title page informing Anders that the work was “Commentaries on the Manifesto of Mages’ Rights by a Citizen of Thedas concerned with Justice” by Brother Sebastian Vael of the Kirkwall Chantry of the Church of the Maker and Andraste. A startled blink. Then another. Sebastian had written, and the Chantry had published, a scholarly work on his Manifesto.

A loud complaint from his belly reminded Anders that cookies and tea were waiting. Sitting in one of the comfortable padded chairs, he opened the commentary, took a sip of sweetened tea, and began to read.

Grand Cleric Elthina, Gareth Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall, and Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr were seated in a small formal meeting room, Brother Sebastian Vael standing to the side against a darkly paneled wall. The atmosphere in the completely paneled wood was cold. Well, the room, Elthina, and Aveline were distinctly chilly. Hawke, however, was Hawke.

“Elthina,” even his chiding was warm. A sigh weighted in sadness, but not anger brought out, “Sebastian, sit down, please. Do not hover.”

Taking a seat behind his superior and to her right, the Chantry brother made an unhappy face at Hawke. Hawke’s Fereldan blue eyes twinkled. “We are here to plan for your protection, Elthina. Even if I did not care, Sebastian and Anders are worried. Yes, Anders is angry that I wouldn’t let him come with us.”

Elthina’s tight and offended posture relaxed slightly. Hawke went on, “Someone wants the pair of you together. We are going to dictate when and where that will be. You, I, and Aveline.” There was no yield to that statement.

A gray eyebrow raised. “We will? Champion?”

Hawke cocked his head, “Who better? We want to bring them out into the light where we can see them. Best not to let them dictate the battlefield.”

“I am aware,” Elthina was dry, “of basic tactics, Serrah Hawke. While the Chantry may be a hotbed of politics, it is not an actual battlefield.”

Hawke was equally dry, “Templar Varnell begged to differ, Your Grace.”

Elthina looked for a long moment at the big man, black hair wild from fingers run through it. “You believe I am in danger from my own people. Is it not bad enough that I am threatened by blood mages, and that the Seekers warn me to abandon my city? Now I must be frightened of those who are responsible for my welfare?” 

“I believe so,” Hawke was not trying to be unkind, “I think there are forces in this city who are seeking power. Remove you and the entire city will be destabilized.”

“Which is why,” Aveline spoke up, “I am here as well as Hawke. Blood magic is not the only force that has been known to corrupt, not only humans, but non-humans as well. Is this not why the demons were formed? Jealousy and the desire for power?”

Another sigh, a heavy one this time. “I am not so unworldly, Serrah Hawke and Serrah Hendyr, as to seat us in a space where we will be overheard. This room is secure, though there are others with secret spaces for listening. Is Anders alright? I have heard nothing but that the ritual to separate him from the spirit Justice was successful.”

Hawke answered, “Anders had a few, shall we say hiccups? There was a period of amnesia. He regained his memories, all of them. He has been working at the Clinic, assisting me with my duties as Champion, and has been dealing with the loss of someone who has been linked inextricably to him for over a decade.”

“He has not been to see me,” from Elthina it was a condemnation, not of Anders, but of herself.

“I can’t speak for Anders,” Hawke said calmly, “I know that you need to speak with him, and he wishes to speak with you. If he were to appear now in the Chantry, I greatly fear that he would be taken by those who would use his status as a condemned murderer against me, against you, and against everyone whom Anders serves in Darktown.”

“How do you plan to prevent this? Short of locking me up and keeping me away from everyone that I am sworn to serve? My flock?” Elthina was strong, her face calm, “Anders is one of my flock, Hawke.

And if I would not leave when your Sister Nightingale instructed me to do so, I will not abandon them now.”

Hawke sighed himself, an echo of Elthina’s, and rubbed a calloused hand over his forehead. “I had hoped we would be able to come up with an idea here. You have a wealth of experience. I have fighting ability, and Aveline has the resources of Kirkwall,” at Aveline’s protest he grinned and fired at her, “You do, though you don’t abuse them. So hush, Aveline, unless you have a suggestion as to how we’re going to deal with this threat. Yes, threat, Elthina, call it what it is.”

“Very well,” it was the Grand Cleric speaking, not the tired and disillusioned Elthina, “Sebastian, please bring us refreshments and see that my calendar is cleared while I am entertaining the Champion and the Guard Captain.”

She had told him how he was to portray the meeting, had given him instructions, and Sebastian stood, went out the heavy, carved wooden doors, closing them solidly behind him, and went to do his duty.

Isabela jerked her head up, afraid that she’d fallen asleep again. Lately Fenris had been insisting that she snored. Tucked as she was into this hidey hole, the Rivaini seafarer did not want to be given away by even a gentle bit of noise. It had been a long night. She had not prepared for a night of this length, had even been planning on sleeping alone in her big, soft, bed, that she was wishing for right at this moment.

The meeting below her looked to be breaking up. Thank the Maker and Andraste and the Stone and all those numerous deities that Merrill ascribed good fortune to. Five men, obviously Templars, Isabela could smell them, and their attempt at a secretive meeting was just pitiful. Well, Isabela could not literally sense them with her nose. She could smell moldy potatoes, from the sacks in which she’d secreted herself, and dust, and the wooden structure on the docks to which the mustachioed man in a hood, and really how trite could he get, had led her. 

The mustache was not even real, for he’d removed it as he’d walked through the door. One just does not remove a disguise when one is still halfway in the public sight.  
Her man had traveled a highly circuitous route through Lowtown, meeting with groups in a handful of other taverns before finally, as the light was showing over the harbor, giving an intricate knock at a shabby door that proved to lead here. These men were playing at intrigue and doing a blighted awful job of it. 

Isabela, using her shadows and exceedingly cunning skill of stealthy movement had infiltrated (a good word, she’d heard Fenris use it) the provocateurs’ space (also a Fenris word, as he was studying Orlesian now). Five men had finally met around a wobbling wooden table, while three others had guarded various doors, none of which Isabela had used to enter.

The tall, well-formed men had worn stained and second hand leather armor with the stance of those accustomed to steel plate. Throwing off their deeply hooded cloaks, and really how suspicious had those looked, they had stood at attention until the final member of their pentumvirate had arrived. Isabela was pleased with herself for that word. She’d pop it on Fenris when she got out of here.

The gist of their discussion had been on the number of inebriates they’d hired to attack the Kirkwall Guard during their night patrols. Isabela spared a prayer that the Big Girl was not caught up in this. Andraste give the grace that Lady Man Hands was in bed with her extremely handsome guardsman giving him the opportunity to knock her up again. Isabela had not spoken to Aveline about the baby, nor it’s loss, and she thought that only she and Merrill had noticed it. She hoped Donnic would get to work and give the Guard Captain another child soon. Not a fate that she herself would enjoy, but Aveline seemed to want it. And more the fool she.

In any case, this was to be the night that cried havoc and unleashed the mabari… no. Mabari were smarter by far than the lot of louts these had set on the Guards tonight. In any case, the men below were counting on this effort, as they did not have the resources to duplicate it any time soon.

Show the Guard of Kirkwall was unable to secure the greater good of the city, and a new type of guard would be necessary. Templars were assigned by day to assist, but limited to the Keep and Chantry at night. These five were hoping that a greater force of Templars would be used around the city, allowing the nighttime environs to be under greater surveillance and as a matter of course, greater control by more respectable authorities.

Three of the five spoke the most, and to the least effect. This included Isabela’s man without a mustache. Much of what they spoke included references to the Chant, which the other two used only when responding to the talkative three. A good deal of their blather was about the coming uprising of the blood mages, who were bound to be finishing what the Kinlock Circle tower had attempted to start. Well, then. Isabela, who was beyond bored, wished they would all just go home now, so that she could find Hawke and Fenris, and then go to bed. Preferably with Fenris. 

The sun must certainly be up by now. Would these idiots never be done? And then one of the two men who were not talking ceaselessly stood and in the manner of a superior officer, dismissed the others. His other waited with him, and seemed about to speak, but the first lifted a hand. “Not here,” it was said quietly.

Maker. Isabela was going to have to follow them to wherever ‘not here’ was.


	17. Bits and Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and things start to move.

The Blooming Rose was one of Isabela’s favorite places. The welcome of the habitues meant more than the scowls of the management now that she no longer spent as much of her coin there. The Rivaini still spent some, but not for the multitude of services she had in the past. Visiting the Rose helped the woman to keep her ear, so to speak, to the ground. 

Following the two men, who looked to be Templars more and more from their walk, their interaction, their habits, she wandered after them in the front door. This was not optimal for tracking. Yes, the crowds allowed for cover. But she was too well known and that could be a disadvantage. Slipping after them, managing to pass through the main room without comment, she lost them in the warren of corridors behind that.

And then, Isabela almost ran smack into Velasco. No warning, suddenly his repellant voice and solid form facing away, speaking to a thug. The Rivaini stepped back quickly and near silently, seeking out the safety of a corner to put between them. Damnation to the Void! Shipwrecks, the bloody Qunari, the pox and consignment to the Fade! Isabela needed to escape. Her panic was not enough to blind her to sensible practice, of course. She left the environs of the Blooming Rose and made her way through the daytime streets to Hawke’s Hightown Mansion.

She was displayed on the sofa being completely ignored by Anders when the sounds of Hawke’s return came through to the Library. “Hawke!” Isabela strode out to meet him, “I need your help!”

Hawke’s head was in a whirl when his friend left to get “a few things I need for my plan!” Sebastian was watching the Fereldan with amused eyes, “Will you do what she asks, Hawke?”

“She doesn’t ask much, does she?” was the reply and then there was a shout for Bodahn. “Maker, Bodahn, where is Anders? He didn’t go down to the Clinic after I told him to stay here?”

“No, Messere Hawke. Healer Anders has been in the library all day.” Bodahn bowed his way out to rack Hawke’s and Sebastian’s weapons.

Sebastian, following Hawke into the Library, ran into his friend who had stopped dead. The mage, hair falling from the leather tie, eyes wide and focused on the words he was furiously placing on paper, was a sight from the past. An absent minded greeting to the pair in the doorway distracting him from the task before him. “Anders?” Whatever Hawke had been expecting, it was not this, “What are you doing?”

“Hawke? Shhh!” and it had the effect Anders wanted, as the big Fereldan was taken silent in surprise.

Anders scratched enthusiastically with the pen against the paper as the men watched him in startlement. Dropping the pen, the long hand snatched up the sander, grains of sand scattered across the marked sheet. A great huff of breath, then the mage turned to examine his two friends. “Well?” he asked finally, “How did the meeting with Elthina go?”

“Well,” Hawke copied Anders uncertainly, “As well as can be expected. She was a bit put out that you were not there.”

“I can imagine it,” that was snorted.

Hawke looked at the mage with narrowed eyes. “What are you working on, Anders?”

Anders straightened his hair, pulling it back into the leather tie, “Revising my Manifesto. Thought it best to give it a polishing up. May I borrow a couple of your books, Hawke?”

“Sure,” Hawke was still looking suspicious, “Go ahead.”

“And?” the innocent look of a blonde mage who had entirely too much to hide, “So tell me more about meeting with Elthina?”

“Fine. It went fine. I'll go into detail later. Right now, though, we’re going up to the Blooming Rose, Anders. A favor for Isabela,” Hawke looked sideways at Sebastian, “You going with us? I already called for Varric?”

Sebastian looked hard at Anders. “I do not agree with what Isabela has planned, so it would be best if you take someone else. Varric would be the best choice. Not Fenris. Meanwhile, I will be returning to the Chantry. Elthina has asked that I take your confession if you would like, Anders. Since you are not to be going to the Chantry until Hawke tells you differently.”

That earned a sharp look from the mage. “Hawke’s orders?” he turned to glare at the big rogue, “Do I stay here, Hawke? Until you choose to release me? Am I your prisoner now, instead of the Circle’s?”

A booming laugh burst from the bearded lips, “Anders, you don’t want to go to the Clinic or to Elthina. There are Templars all over Darktown right now. A mysterious antagonist has set a trap specifically for you. I don’t know what Meredith is up to, but I don’t think you want to become her guest any time soon.”

Mutinously, lower lip pouting out, Anders replied, “If I am that big of a burden to you, Hawke, then perhaps it is best if I find other accommodations.”

Hawke’s amusement irritated Anders even further. “You could always go up to the Dalish encampment. I know how much you adore Dalish women.”

“Better the Dalish,” Ander gritted out, “Than being trapped. Again.”

“Anders,” it was sighed, “I don’t want to keep you here. I was thinking, rather, that we’d do some sort of trek after the man who’s hunting Isabela. She has a plan.”

“Isabela has a plan,” that was suspicious as well.

Hawke raised those dark eyebrows, “The good Captain wants us to hand her over to Castillon.”

Anders shut his mouth sharp. Sebastian’s unhappiness was now made clear. Looking over at the Chantry brother he said politely, “No, thank you, Sebastian. I believe I will wait. Since I will be helping Hawke to kill Isabela and will not doubt have other bits to confess later. You can go back to your Chantry cell.”

Sebastian and Hawke looked at each other. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, cocking it at Anders. “I will check in on you both tomorrow. To find out,” it was dry, “how Isabela died. Meanwhile I will be praying for all of you.”

“If that helps,” Hawke waved the archer off.

Anders waited until the Chantry brother had left before rounding on the big, Fereldan rogue. “What in the Void do you think you’re doing? What does Isabela think she’s doing? Handing her over to Castillon?”

“Did I say I was happy with the idea?” Hawke rumbled, “‘Bela thinks that we can sell her to Castillon’s flunky, Velasco. then track them when the thug takes her to Castillon. Otherwise she says we don’t have a chance in the Void of finding him. We need Castillon to ensure that he stops sending assassins after Isabela.”

“So,” Anders’ expression gave evidence that there were doubts of Hawke’s sanity, “We sell her to a criminal who is likely to beat her, or even more to kill her. Offer up her head to Castillon instead of her live body.”

“Well, that’s why we’re going along to ensure that doesn’t happen. You’re the Healer. And you do this nifty trick with fireballs! You in?” Hawke sounded oh so hopeful.

Anders grimaced, “We’ll need Varric, definitely, if Sebastian’s not coming with us.”

“Already on his way. Sent him a note via Sandal on our way here.”

They sold Isabela to the thug, Velasco, with Hawke playing a vicious blackguard turning her in for Castillon's bounty, or whatever Velasco was willing to pay them. Anders froze when Hawke actually gave their friend a backhand across the face. There was all too obvious fear in ‘Bela’s eyes, and Anders did not want to be the one with Hawke when Fenris found out. They all knew the Rivaini had been trapped in a loveless marriage, sold into it as was apparently the custom in Rivain. Difficult not to be squeamish about marriage after that.

Tracking the Rivaini proved fairly easy as she kept dropping bits of cheap jewelry. Taking out Castillon’s men, not so difficult. Traps, well, Varric did not disarm them so much as set them off. And then, and then, Isabela threw them all by accepting a ship instead of killing her enemy. Trading the evidence that would have convicted Castillon instead, for his bright new ship. Anders knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but there it was.

From there Hawke dragged Anders, Varric, and Isabela to the Dalish encampment to track down a dangerous Antivan Crow assassin. After killing yet another of the Elvhen stick insect creatures, or the same one, as they were assured, Hawke decided to trust the Crow, a tattooed, tow headed Elvhen named Zevran Arainai. Anders thought about smacking the big rogue on the pate with his staff, but doubted it would bring much sense. Isabela knew the Crow. Isabela had been intimate with this assassin and had apparently hired him to kill her husband. With a knife to the back of the head. Again, Anders was relieved that Fenris was not present. A spite of jealousy thrust through the mage, wondering if Isabela would have tried to convince Fenris to take the assassin to their bed. Grinding his teeth, Anders focused on the story that Varric was telling to Hawke, and ignoring the knowing the looking from the, as she was insisting now, Captain Isabela.

Anders was learning new things about everyone today. First, that Sebastian had written that Commentary, and second that Isabela had ordered her husband’s death. Anders knew that the Rivaini had sworn never to marry again, but he hadn’t thought the first marriage had ended quite that badly. 

Hawke thought the Crow, or former Crow as he told them, was charming. He turned the man loose, and then went after the Crows who had, theoretically hired the Champion of Kirkwall to track down Arainai. That was a battle, with Arainai joining in on their side. They left the Wounded Coast with a large number of dead Crows, the assassin type, not the bird, and the gratitude of the former Crow. It appeared that Arainai was a favorite (“not that type of favorite please, gentlemen! Alistair is devoted to his queen!”) of King Alistair of Ferelden, and had followed Anders’ Warden Commander during the Blight. Thedas was becoming a smaller and smaller world all the time.

All in all, it was an entertaining day, and Anders had gotten the opportunity to hurl fireballs and whatever else in the lethal category, at some men who had no doubt deserved it. Anders had also been amused at Hawke sidestepping Arainai’s attempts at seduction. 

Isabela had a ship now, and who knew how long she would remain in Kirkwall when she could sail off in the “Siren’s Call”, as she had renamed the ship. “Kitten, I have a fondness for the name. Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” as she had said.

On their way back to Kirkwall the buxom woman had enlisted their aid in a project Varric had been helping the pirate with for a considerable time. Hawke and Anders were to get Fenris out of Kirkwall, and keep him out for at least a week. Hawke was wildly excited about this idea, even when Isabela and Varric refused to give them details.

Later, as they sat around a small fire made of driftwood in the wind swept dunes of the Wounded Coast, Anders complained loudly, “Hawke, I strongly suspect this is all occurring just to keep me out of Kirkwall.”

Hawke nodded sagely, put a finger against his nose and repeated the proverb, “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

Fenris watched them bicker back and forth. “Will either of you educate me as to what is going on? No? Then I’m for bed. You two get the first two watches. You’re both adults.. Certainly you can behave.” Hawke’s booming laughed had echoed into the darkness. Even Anders had to smile.

Slavers were tracked down and destroyed. Tal Vashoth likewise, and there seemed no end of giant spiders that Hawke charged into with his giant blades flying. Sooner or later they had to return to Kirkwall. It was home, after all. The issue was that it was sooner, rather than later, mostly because they ran out of things to kill. Fenris pointed out that they’d brought limited rations, and Anders, was it because of his Grey Warden body chemistry, ate enough for three or four men. And so they returned to Kirkwall.

Meeting Varric at the Hanged Man, he did his best to keep them away from Fenris’s house in Hightown. The more he tried, the harder Fenris moved toward returning to Hightown and his home. Isabela was not at the Hanged Man, nor was she on her ship when they checked the Docks.

What met them at Fenris’ mansion were hired Dwarven and Elvhen and Fereldan workers. Fenris’ roof had been completely replaced (“It was that much rotted, Messere!”), the well cleaned out (“Someone had been dropping bodies into it!” had been the shocked comment by the workers), and the building restored to working condition. For a house, that is, instead of a decaying warehouse for corpses. 

Fenris walked around in a daze, stepping catlike over bits of trash and dust on the floor. “What? How did Isabela do this?”

Varric, who had come along from the Hanged Man, was pleased to be able to pontificate. “She took trade instead of gold coins for smuggling shipments. See, here, Broody, are  
Orlesian tiles, which are now covering your roof. Wood, seasoned and ready for building, from Ferelden. Iron fixtures from Orzammar. Wall paper and decorative items from Orlais. Nothing from Tevinter. She’s oblivious, but not that clueless. And this has all been stored in your garden for months. You didn’t notice?”

The house was liveable. And Fenris did not know how to react. Anders was finding it amusing to watch the former slave deal with the aftermath of Tropical Storm Isabela. “Excellent,” he’d said, rubbing hands in front of a working fireplace, “I think the next Wicked Grace game will be here, don’t you?”

A growl, “I did not need this to be taken on by Isabela.”

Hawke pulled a ridiculous face, “No, you did not. But you had better give some thanks and praise for the woman. I did not know she was working toward this. That she got anyone to cooperate was amazing. And Anders, he needs furniture if we’re going to play cards. The floor may be repaired, but it’s still too cold for company.” 

From behind Fenris came the smooth contralto, “Same as refurbishing a ship, sweet things.”

Fenris turned and said darkly, “We will speak of this.”

Isabela batted those long and utterly feminine lashes, “But of course we will, Fenris.”

They might have, but it was not in front of Hawke or Anders, or anyone else in the party. From then on they saw little of the Rivaini pirate. She was to be found either at Fenris’ quarters, or down at the shipyards overseeing the refurbishing of her new ship, the Siren’s Call. It was not in need of refurbishing, but Isabela said she wanted it to her ‘specifications’.

Anders found himself ensconced in the guest room at Hawke’s once again, but did not cause any large amount of argument. Instead he worked in earnest on the revising of the Manifesto, relying upon the Commentaries published by the church to clean it up, trim the wordiness to which Anders was prone, the ranting which was mostly Justice, and generally correct the arguments where Sebastian had won his points when they had become good enough friends to be able to put up with comments and arguments.

He’d seen Lirene leaving, a disgruntled look on her face. Hawke must have given her instructions to take over the Clinic in the interrum. Ah, well, could not be helped at this point. And Anders could continue his work on the Manifesto. Before reading Sebastian’s Commentary, the mage had not thought of being the source of a scholarly work. Sebastian was no Brother Genetivi, but even so, it gave Anders the desire to make changes to the Manifest, flawed as it was, to make a work worth standing as a treatise, and not just a broadside.

Of course, being fed regularly was a plus as well.


	18. Bethany and Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany has been searching.

The Fade was not faded. At least Bethany Hawke had never found it to be so. It was ivy green and dark plum purple and crimson, that last especially around the Rage demons, but not faded. Rather, it was more like swimming through breathable water. Objects and distances were distorted. Nothing healthy grew there, at least nothing edible as far as Humans were concerned. Bethany did not particularly want to think about how one would survive if one was transported there.

Bethany had sent people to the Fade, well that was once. And she had done it using the guidance of an experienced older mage, as Marethari, the Sabrae Clan keeper was very much older than Bethany Hawke. Gareth, Bethany’s brother, had been sent into the Fade before by Marethari to rescue the Dream Weaver Feynriel, half human and half elvhen. Gareth had gone in with Fenris, with Isabela, and with Anders. Only then it had been Marethari who was responsible, and not Anders who had actually been in Anders’ body. The intelligence in the body was Justice, or so her brother had told Bethany. Sebastian had refused to go.

All in all that meant that Fenris had been the only one to enter physically into the Fade twice, if you didn’t count Anders’ body when he was not piloting it. So the consideration about whether or not a living body could survive in the Fade was a real one. Not one that Bethany would like to deal with, however. Yes, she … wondered. No, she was not interested in living there for ever.  
Bethany Hawke liked the Circle. She suspected she’d enjoy the Circles in other places much more than here in the Gallows. Kirkwall had a reputation to maintain, and quite a few of the Templars wished to uphold their image as deadly, vicious killers. 

Bethany thanked the Maker every day for her placement in the Children’s, or really the Apprentices’, Tower. Participating in the Harrowing had been frightening enough. Cullen had been there, not smiling, but his solid presence was reassuring. Bethany was not fool enough to give in to a demon after spending her life fighting them. So, she’d passed the Harrowing, and then been told that Meredith Stannard, Knight Commander of the Gallows, refused to allow her to notify her family.

Bethany was afraid of the Knight Commander. Bethany would have hated the Knight Commander if she hadn’t known that hatred would only do Bethany ill. Meredith Stannard did not care what ‘her’ mages thought. Bethany, selected to work and learn from First Enchanter Orsino himself, saw from day to day what a cruel, obsessed woman Meredith Stannard was. Apparently she’d not been like this in the beginning. A few of the older Templars, the ones who had avoided lyrium poisoning, could still talk about the early days, the History of the Gallows. Bethany was good at getting everyone to speak, Templars, Mages, children.

Now, Bethany needed to seek out Justice. Because of the nature of the Tower there were adult mages, Senior Enchanters, who sought their beds at the same time the youngest children did. Guardians even in the Fade, that was their responsibility. Of course, they woke up earlier, but by that time other Enchanters had gone to sleep and slept later. Always someone in the Fade with the children. Demons were not encouraged at the Tower, and several of those Guardians fought at night against the forces that seemed drawn to the Gallows, or if her brother was right, to Kirkwall itself.

Bethany lay on her pallet, and closed her eyes to open them in the Fade. Flames lit the distorted room, though torches were no longer used for lighting in the modern Gallows. Bethany was in a smaller cell, it opened into the Apprentices dormitories, and the slender, black haired woman could see the flicker of small Dreamers moving through the halls to disappear into their own dream worlds, carved out of the Fade. Nothing called to her. No spirits, no demons, no cries of fear or grief. Bethany stood and took the staff she had received when they’d fought Corypheus, which was in the real world locked in the armory until she rose and signed it out for lessons or leaving the Gallows escorted by a Templar. The wood and inlay felt right in her hand.

Calling a small ball of energy to float at her head, the Mage began to walk along the hallways, sensing and searching for the familiar pull of Justice. She’d been walking the halls of the Gallows for a week now, and seen him nowhere inside the building. Tonight she would mount the stairway up to the Harrowing Chamber and then take the much smaller spiral stair to the roof of the Apprentices’ Tower. Furniture created an obstacle course, familiar and unfamiliar, ancient and new, but not another dreamer did she meet now that she’d reached the access to the Harrowing Chamber. 

Everyone tended to avoid the Harrowing Chamber. It was an echoing round of a room, traditional she’d been told, unfurnished except for a stand to hold the bowl of lyrium, and floored with tiles in mosaic patterns to facilitate the ritual, or to improve power for the Rite of Tranquility, although that was now performed in many other places in the Gallows as well as here. The bowl for lyrium glowed here, though in truth there was no lyrium in the bowl most times except when the Harrowing was taking place. Standing by the pedestal Bethany looked around the room, listening. She’d had thought there would be ghosts. So many mages had died here. No Templars, so far as Bethany knew. More lately, than years past had failed the ritual.

Cullen had told Bethany that confidence was an important ingredient in the Harrowing. Not overconfidence, nor arrogance. The self-knowledge that one was a competent mage in one’s own right. The room did not echo in the Fade. Most sound did not carry in a right way in the Fade. Odd cries and screams could be heard for untold distances, and yet it might be difficult to hear a conversation in the next room. 

As Bethany paced the room a small opening appeared in the far wall. The entrance to the spiral stair, and she took it, holding the long mage’s gown up off the floor, almost to her knees to keep from tripping on the tight, high steps. Bethany wished she had her sheathe to hold the stave. Then again, perhaps it was best if she did not let it out of her hand. She stepped out onto the roof of the tower into noise and storm.

There were no ghosts here. No Dreamers that Bethany could see other than herself. Looking straight across the flat flag-stoned roof she saw quiet emptiness. Looking up, however, there was movement and noise and the sharp flashes of fire and lightning. Almost, Bethany thought, it was as if she was looking up into an upturned glass bowl. The spirits and demons, and there were legion, seemed to be stopped together, suspended in mid air, or on top of the half globe over the tower’s top. The apex was higher than Bethany could reach with her staff. The edges, the young mage moved closer to the wall that surrounded the edge of the tower. Putting her hand slowly closer to the stones, she could feel the hair on the back of her arm rise up on her skin. Energy. Some form of ward, and Bethany did not want to consider what would happen if she broke through that ward unintentionally. 

The demons, or as Merrill had taken to calling them in the few notes smuggled through, First Children, had stilled on the surface of the hemisphere above her, turning, some of them with eyeless faces that peered at the human Dreamer standing by the wall. There were spells, healing spells, that required a mite of energy to identify a substance. Bethany used one now, just a light touch against the surface of whatever topped the tower. There was no huge show of sparks, no sudden cataclysmic disappearance of the ward, no whiting out of the clear hemisphere. Bethany could read the energy signature, cast by mages in concert to protect the Harrowing chamber. It was an old spell, but no less strong for all that age. Bethany knew the children had not always been kept in this tower. Time was that this was considered restricted, and scholars were more likely to be housed in this place than children. What had this ward been set to protect then?

Bethany had no argument over the precious nature of the residents now. Raising her dreaming hand she set a finger to the ward. It did not vanish, nor shock her, though it did gently repulse that finger. A face formed on the other side, like a person looking into a window’s glass, pale, brightly glowing eyes, curious. Bethany had not been expecting it, and while she did not scream, she did jump.

Looking over her shoulder she understood now that the First Children were all moving, some slowly others quickly, over to where she stood. Three flaming Rage Demons drifted near, then lost interest and went back to where they had been stationed, not touching the ward, but not leaving either. A hideous Pride Demon clambered closer using the stones of the higher tower nearby, the Senior Enchanters were housed there, with the Tranquil below. Bethany strove not to remember that the Senior Enchanters’ quarters were shrinking, while those of the Tranquil were expanding.

Bethany stuck her tongue out at the Pride Demon, which pleased it, if the toothy grin it shone back at her was any sign. The Fereldan mage calmed herself, turned away from it, and began to move around the circular top of the tower. Traveling around it this way brought her close to glowing figures, and fierce and frightening faces. Bethany worked to be polite, to control her emotions. “Justice?” she called softly to the ward.

The words sounded muted to her ears. No familiar blue glow, no suit of armor such as Anders and Fenris had described. A quarter of the way around, and Bethany had acquired a following as four Desire Demons flickered back and forth between their horned and buxom female form and that of almost every male that Bethany had ever known or desired. For a split second one transformed into Carver, and Bethany Hawke’s heart gave a pang in grief. Immediately they became copies of her twin, all of them. But not perfect. Not enough that Bethany would ever be fooled into thinking any of them actually were Carver. It made her skin creep how they managed to sexualize her brother, her twin, and it certainly added to the sense of ”Wrong, this is not Carver!”

Half way around, and the unpleasant form of a Sloth Demon lounged as though using the repulsion of the ward to keep itself upright. One thing that Bethany, or any other Hawke for that matter, was not was indolent. Sloth did not tempt her at all.

Other spirits were now appearing before her, behind the ward. Bethany could not read them, did not know what they were other than they were not demons, not now, at least. They were interesting, to be truthful, but not what she sought. Moving away from the three quarter mark there was a flash, blue, and red. “Justice?” Bethany cried it this time.

And he was there. Bethany had never considered the spirit a friend. If anything he was a problem for Anders, something she wished to help remove, hence her involvement, highly illegal, in the ritual that had released Anders. “How are you?” she shouted, uncertain as to whether or not he could hear her.

Just ice shook his helmeted head. Holding up a gauntleted hand the spirit pointed down to where a bright red streak crawled up his leg. Vengeance was still there. Had he grown in stature? Or had he remained at the point to which Justice was infected when he was inside Anders? Bethany could not tell.

Bethany watched as a blue, glowing finger, not really steel clad, but looking armored, wrote in the air, leaving a faint trail behind. It took Bethany a moment to consider. Justice was writing, he must have learnt it from Ander sand the Manifesto. It was, of course, backwards. Bethany, though, worked with children, teaching them their letters and spells. “Anders?” she mouthed, to receive a shake of the spirit’s head. She held her thumb up in the universal gesture of well being. Pointing at the blue glowing figure, she received a similar gesture.

Bethany decided that she needed to conjure paper. Perhaps that was possible now. Concentrating she imagined papers and a pen and bottle of ink on the stone flag floor before her. Well, that worked! Taking a sheet, and wetting the pen nib in the ink she wrote, “Eluvian / mirror contained” in her neatest block printing. That received a positive nod, a thumb up as well. Next Bethany printed, “Anders is at my brother’s house.”

What had her brother told Bethany? Next she wrote, “Working on the Manifesto”. That also received a positive response. “Are you well?” was next, and received a hand held out flat. So, not good, not bad? “Are you fighting demons?” was the next question. A shake of the head, yes. “Is Vengeance a problem?” Again the flat held hand. What did Bethany need to know? 

Truthfully, she’d expected to sit down and have a conversation with Justice, not place parlor games. She was going to need to come up with a better form of communication. Printing out, “I need to let Hawke and Anders know you are here.” That got a nod of acquiescence. Bethany printed more, “Anders has been looking for you in Kirkwall. He can not get to the Gallows.”

Bethany was uncertain about the truth of that, but Merrill’s note had said something about Anders being unable to look toward the Gallows in the Fade. After a moment there was a slight nod. “I will be back,” came next. Then, “Thank you, Justice! Maker Bless you!” Bethany was uncertain why she wrote that last, but she wanted to hug Justice, give him reassurance that he was not alone.

Looking about them, there were spirits and demons crowded around Justice on the outside of the ward now, Bethany knew he was not alone, but certainly he was not with his friends. Justice gave a glowing nod, another thumb raised to her. Reassuring Bethany, the spirit of Justice turned and spoke to the pastel glowing spirit next to him, then pulsed, blue, glowing, not lightning, but like a wave of blue, and all the other beings around him flew back, sent away from his presence by the energy. Bethany smiled, and Justice’s attention turned back to her. He nodded. She grinned, not her brother’s improper huge grin, but more than a smile. Waving a farewell, Bethany Hawke, Enchanter of the Gallows Circle of Kirkwall, took her leave and moved backward to the spiral stair, heading back to her bed and proper dreaming.


	19. A Visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past events impact the current day.

Gareth Hawke opened his eyes and smiled slightly into the dimness of his bedroom. The four poster bed, draped and covered with dark red, was warm in the coolness of the room, even with the drapes opened. It was early, or Orana would have lit the fire, and the window curtains were still drawn. The dog lay at the foot of the bed, lounging across Hawke’s feet and Merrill’s legs. Why the dog preferred to lie on top of the Dalish woman instead of stretching out on the empty, flat areas of the bed that were untenanted was a mystery to Hawke. All in all, it amused the big man, much as he was amused by Merrill in bed with him. It wasn’t that Hawke was a cuddler, but he always woke to find Merrill spooning him.

Ah, his lovely Merrill. So much more than any of the rest of them understood. Even Isabela underestimated the former Keeper’s First. Hawke considered waking his lover up in the best way, but decided to let her sleep. Carefully scooting out the side of the bed, hearing a snuff as the dog moved into Hawke’s warmed space, the big fighter stretched and grabbing comfortable clothing, moved quietly, or as quietly as he was able, to the water closet joining the room. 

Morning duties taken care of Hawke leaned over the landing to hear voices downstairs, distant, in the kitchen of course. Jogging down the stairs he made his way out of the formal areas, hearing movement in the library, assuming it was Anders working on the Manifesto again. 

Bearded jaw cracking in a huge yawn the Champion of Kirkwall pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. There was an elf at his table, talking to Bodahn. Not one of his elves either, not Fenris, Orana, and certainly not Merrill. This was an unfamiliar elf dressed in the blue and silver livery of the Grey Wardens. A Dalish man, from the pattern of his valleslin, shaped by antlers spreading across his face. “Hello?” Hawke lifted his eyebrows in polite invitation.

“Messere Hawke! Allow me,” Bodahn was all pride and excitement, “to introduce you to Warden Commander Theron Mehariel, of Ferelden. I believe I mentioned that I traveled with the Warden during the Blight in Ferelden.”

Hawke controlled the blink, then grinned and stretched forth a hand, “Welcome to my house, Grey Warden. You’ve come to visit Bodahn?” The Champion of Kirkwall wondered if Anders knew the Warden Commander was in the house. How to get the mage out of the Library was the issue. Would it be possible to slip the mage out down the cellar stairs and into the Clinic without discovery? Possibly Hawke would be able to use Merrill as a distraction. “My…” he’d almost said wife and cursed himself silently, “Merrill will be very pleased to see you!”

The big fighter was being examined, as the Elvhen Warden stood and took the proffered hand. Hawke had forgotten the Dalish did not practice that tradition, and he controlled a wince at the lapse. The Warden’s voice was accented, of course he would share the lilt of the Sabrae Clan, “I am, of course, here in search of Anders. Discovering Bodahn was happy chance, Champion.”

Bugger. He knew about Anders. “Hawke, please,” and what next, “I’m afraid I can’t let you take away my Healer, Warden. Anders has a home here as long as he wishes.”

The Dalish Warden was still examining Hawke, as though he did not quite understand his meaning. “I am afraid I do not understand. Anders wrote to me. Oh, the handwriting was someone named ‘Sebastian Vael’ of the Chantry, but of course it was Anders. He did say that Merrill has been experimenting with an eluvian.”

That Blighted mirror! Hawke sought for a response, “Oh.”

A smile, small and dry, crept over the Dalish man’s face. “The Wardens have known where Anders is for some time, Messere Hawke. You did help my assistant, Nathaniel Howe, in the Deep Roads. When we need Anders, we know where he will be.”

There was a reply somewhere, but it was not necessary for the blonde mage in question pushed aside the door and entered the room with a wary expression on the unshaven face. He had heard Hawke speaking, then, for the man knew he was not quiet at the best of times. “Warden Commander. I could tell you were here. Or some Grey Warden was. I did not expect you to come yourself. I thought, perhaps, Nathaniel.”

There was a tiny laugh. “Anders,” and the Elvhen man moved around the table gracefully to embrace the taller, broader human, “It is good to see you alive.”

A moment, and then Anders hugged the man tightly back, “And you, Theron. I had heard that you came back, but disappeared again.”

Stepping away so that serious eyes could examine the human face above his, Mehariel nodded. There are events that have been set in motion. The Grey Wardens are striving to remain uninvolved with politics while we deal with those events. It has not proven easy.”

“And yet,” Anders question was phrased as a careful statement, “you came here to answer a letter about an old broken mirror.”

“I came here,” Theron Mehariel replied, “To answer your question. And to see what manner of man you’ve taken service under.”

“Hawke is one of the best men I’ve met. I will not willingly leave Kirkwall right now,” that was said belligerently.

Another smile, “I came to bring someone, not to take you away. Bodahn,” he turned to the Dwarf, “Would you have my friend join us? He is in the library you said?”

“Did you bring Nathaniel after all?” Anders sounded suspicious, “Or Oghren?”

A laugh now, “Neither. Rather a new acquaintance, but one who knows about eluvian. Messere Hawke, may I present Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrant, Esquire.”

“Flora!” Anders shouted, and pulled the tall, thin mage in the doorway into another strong hug. Hawke was taller than the man, who looked as though a breeze would knock him over. Not tough and thin as Anders was.

“Finn! er. Call me Finn, please,” the red headed man said to Hawke over Anders’ shoulder. Giving the blonde mage a lightish pat on the shoulder he added, “Ah. Anders. Good to see you. Alive, and relatively un-abominated.”

“Why Florian!” Anders let the man go and grinned at him, “What a thing to say!”

“It’s the best I can do, Anders. Now where is the eluvian?” Finn essayed an authoritative, and entirely unsuitable serious expression, considering the curious hat he was wearing..

“Not here,” Anders was succinct, and Hawke could tell it was entirely due to being a pain in the arse to this Finn person.

A sigh, frustration and apprehension rolled together. “I would like to see it, please.”

A truly filthy leer, “We’ve known each other for so very long, and this is the first time you’re asking?” Anders gave Finn a nudge, “I can’t show it here, we’ll have to go up to my room.”

“What?” Finn’s startled expression had Hawke snickering like a schoolboy. That face went from startled to outraged, “No! You idiot! the Eluvian!”

“Oh, that!” Anders was as innocent as a newborn, “That’s Merrill’s. We have to wait for her. It’s in her house in the Alienage.”

That got Mehariel’s attention. “Merrill is living in the Kirkwall Alienage?” it was dangerously sharp.

Hawke coughed in embarrassment, Anders answered for him. “No, Merrill lives here. With Hawke. Your clan kicked her out, Theron. So she went to live in the Alienage.”

“Not my clan,” the tone had regained evenness. “The Sabrae are no longer my clan, Anders. Why did they ‘kick her out’ as you say?”

Merrill’s clear piping voice sounded from behind where Finn and Anders blocked the doorway. “Because of the eluvian, and because I was using blood magic. Is that you, Theron? And Serrah would you please move so that I may move into the kitchen?” There was a gentle hand placed on Finn’s back.

Anders stepped sideways and pulled Finn out of Merrill’s way without giving the tall thin man a chance to respond. “Finn? This is Merrill. Merrill? Finn from the Kinloch Circle Tower.”

Merrill’s gamine face peered up at the hat first in confusion, then into the mage’s face. “Hello! Are you a friend of Anders’?” then looking around she saw Theron and her face lit up. “Theron!” the Dalish woman launched herself into the Warden Commander’s arms, “Creators! I am so happy to see you!”

“Did she say, ‘blood magic’?” Finn muttered to Anders, watching the two Dalish suspiciously.

“Andraste’s Knicker Weasels, Florian,” Anders was disgusted, “look at her hands. Cuts all over them, healed over. Of course she said blood magic.”

It was not simple to see the healed wounds on Merrill’s hands and arms as she had released Theron and was talking six to the dozen, including her hands in the conversation. Anders allowed Finn his unease while they listened to Merrill babble, then pulled his colleague out of the room. “Merrill does not practice blood magic any more, Finn.”

Finn followed Anders into the Library, “No one gives up blood magic, Anders. They either die or become abominations.”

“Merrill,” it was a firm tone that Anders in no way truly felt, “has given it up for Hawke. She was primarily using it to cleanse the eluvian of the Taint, as I understand it.”

The Library was lit by the fire, and early morning light began to shine sideways in the windows above. “So? Kirkwall?” Finn looked around the well appointed room, “Personal Mage to the Champion of Kirkwall? Is this free enough for you?” Turning, the Circle mage found Anders staring at him with an open mouth. “What?”

“What makes you think I’m Hawke’s personal mage?” disbelieving.

“Maker, Anders! I could hear him from in here, you know. ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you take away my Healer’? Your Hawke is not subtle, is he. He’d have driven Wynne and Greagoir spare with that booming voice at Kinloch.” Finn’s amusement was unusual. Anders could not remember the younger mage having a sense of humor.

“Hmm,” it was a humm, “No. I think you should see where I truly work,” thoughtful from Anders.

“Is it outside?” that was suspicious in spades from Finn.

“Why, no. I can very truthfully say that my Clinic is nowhere near ‘outside’,” and though Hawke had specifically told him not to, Anders lead Finn down to the Clinic. After all, freedom is making your own choices.

Finn was, of course, appalled. Anders unlocked the doors, but left the lanterns unlit. The space was clean, or relatively so. Lirene had found a local family to scrub everything daily. The Healer’s personal items were gone, retrieved by Fenris, but Anders showed the Circle Mage where he’d slept, the secret compartment for hiding human cargo when the Mage Underground ran into Templars, and the vault for keeping lyrium and other dangerous potions.

Lirene disturbed them, followed by two of the midwives as she opened the clinic for the day. Lighting the lanterns she looked quickly over her shoulder, “Templars!”

“We have to hide, Finn,” Anders pulled at his sleeve, “Come back here.”

“You might, but I don’t. I have dispensation,” Finn cocked his head, “And I’m here with the Warden Commander.”

Anders gave a quick nod and disappeared into the hole in the floor, pulling the supports over and the lid down on top of them. Finn walked over to look curiously, then as in afterthought kicked a throw rug across the space and stood on it.

Finn was quite secure in his paperwork. He had it complete, and the authorization was correct. Greagoir and his second had signed it, as had King Alistair, though why the Warden Commander had insisted on that Finn was uncertain. After all, Florian was no blood mage.

The Templars from the Gallows, however, were not pleasant. They were demanding, crude, and made filthy insinuations about the paperwork. Lirene pointed out that this was a visitor, not one of the Clinic staff, and they had better to do with their time than to keep harassing the poor in this manner. She threatened to report them to Knight Captain Cullen if they continued to cause trouble for her in what was clearly a non-magical clinic.

“Cullen?” came from Finn. “Not Cullen from the Kinloch Circle?” the mage sounded excited, and not in the usual frightened way.

The lead Templar admitted that he believed the Knight Captain might have come from Kinloch in Ferelden. His friends looked less than thrilled at a mage asking for the Knight Captain.

“Oh! This is wonderful!” Finn took a step forward, the Templars actually a step back, “Is it possible to make an appointment to see him? I don’t know if he would remember me, but I certainly remember him! He was at my Harrowing!”

This was not expected. This was not how mages acted in the presence of Templars. Suspicion bloomed on their faces. They examined the papers that Finn had presented again. “Why did you say you were here?” it was demanded.

“I didn’t say,” Finn answered, “But as the paperwork states, I am here in Kirkwall with the Fereldan Warden Commander on Grey Warden business. He is currently at the house of Gareth Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. I could take you there, but my guide seems to have vanished. Perhaps I should not have paid him in advance? Of course, if you gentlemen know the way, could I impose on you to take me back?”

Neatly, the Kinloch Circle mage removed the Templars from the Clinic on what he described as an ‘errand of mercy’ to return him to the Warden Commander. Anders, listening to all of this frippery and discussion, lay in the smugglers’ cubby for a while after the Templars had left, pondering the change in a Circle Pedant, and wondering exactly how Finn had learned about eluvians.


	20. Loose ends...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much goes on in Act 3. This is a bit of that. And more a bit of tying up the ends of the alternate au scarf I've been knitting.

Hawke spent much of the day following Merrill, the other mages, and the Warden Commander around. Unused to being the tagalong, it gave the man a good deal of thought about Merrill, about what she wanted in life, and their future. Frustrating as well was the ability of the Fereldan Warden Commander to escort Finn to the Gallows and set up an appointment to see not only Cullen, who was pleased that Finn had looked for him, but Bethany as well. “I guess I just can’t do everything,” he muttered to Anders as they turned away from the Gallows’ Dock and headed for the Hanged Man.

“Why would you want to?” asked the blonde mage curiously.

“I just worry about the future, Anders. Meredith makes crazy look sane. I keep expecting to hear that she’s proceeded with the Rite of Annulment, and all of the mages in the Gallows are dead. Bethany is the last bit of my family alive. Merrill won’t want to have half elvhen children, and I can’t guarantee their safety if we had them. 

I don’t so much miss being a farmer as I wish I wasn’t so responsible for everything. No power, really, but the blame would fall on me if the city was destroyed by blood magic and abominations. Or Templars at this rate. Maker, I wish it was Cullen I was dealing with. Not Meredith Stannard. Even Elthina is reasonable compared to Meredith.”

They traipsed through the Hanged Man’s Common Room to a chorus of “Hawke!” before invading Varric’s rooms. Varric’s ‘hello’, and ‘of course, you may sit down in my room and have a conversation without me’ were missed as Anders replied, “You have no idea. If anyone should be crazed about mages, it would be Cullen. You know about the Kinloch Hold uprising, don’t you?”

“What you’ve told me. I think Cullen mentioned it as well. That a Senior Enchanter from the hold returned from Ostagar and attempted to get the Circle to support Loghain the Usurper. That the Warden Commander and his company fought their way through the Fade, and blood magic and demons to rescue the First Enchanter and restore the Circle to the Templars.”

“Cullen,” Anders raised a hand and without thought began to tumble a tiny fireball over his fingers, “was the only surviving Templar from within the tower. There were mages that survived. I was one of them, but then I was in the dungeon after an escape attempt. I thought I was having hallucinations, refusing demons while in a cell that did not allow me to access the Fade. The demons, by the way, couldn’t get into the cell because of that. They require access to the Fade for their magic as well. They stood in the doorway and tempted me. Offered me release from captivity.

Another mage I know escaped death by hiding in a cupboard. That one was a right bastard. Involved in smuggling lyrium into the tower and selling it, mostly for favors, to the Templars. Not certain how Finn survived. He was probably holed up reading the entire time and nobody noticed him.

But Cullen. Cullen was tormented and kept in a force box by Uldred. Wynne, she is a Senior Enchanter and Spirit Healer as well, said she’d never seen anything like it. Cullen hadn’t broken completely, but he was,” a pause for the right word, “severely damaged. He said at the time that the only way to ensure that no blood mages had escaped was to kill all of the mages. He tried to convince Knight Commander Greagoir and the Grey Wardens. Had a breakdown afterward.”

“Cullen?” Hawke found that difficult to match with the quiet spoken Knight Captain.

Anders tipped the fireball back and forth, and began to flicker the colors from blue to green to red. “Yes, Cullen. He was sent to another tower. Mind Healer Talley tried to work with him, but Cullen refused all medical healing. He brought himself back from hell.”

Hawke absentmindedly took a sip from the mug of ale that Norah had put into his hand, “So what Cullen said, that ‘I was at the Circle Tower in Ferelden during the Blight. I saw first hand how Templar's trust and leniency can be rewarded. I still have nightmares of Uldred's depravities.’ He was not exaggerating?”

“Maker, no!” Anders snuffed out the fireball, “Far from it! It was a horror, and one I’d not like to see again myself.” A glass of the yellow wine of the Anderfels standing in front of him took hold of the mage’s attention, and he looked up at Hawke. 

Hawke realized he himself was holding an almost full mug and blinked. They turned to look at Varric, sitting princely at his place heading his own table. “Well, gentlemen, I see you have returned from wherever you were in the Fade,” Varric commented with a touch of sarcasm.

“Varric!” Hawke widened his eyes in mock surprise, “However did we get here?”

“I’d say ‘lost in thought’ but we both know that Blondie and you don’t go in for much of that,” the Dwarven broker took a drink from his own goblet of moss wine, “So, word is that the Fereldan Warden Commander of the Grey Wardens is here in Kirkwall. Why isn’t Blondie in hiding?”

Anders gave a snort, and Hawke shook his head, “Theron Mehariel is currently visiting the Gallows with a mage colleague. He will meet us, and Merrill, here after she’s done disposing of her mirror.”

“Daisy’s getting rid of that mirror? What did it take to convince her of that?” Varric leaned forward as if scenting the trace of a good story in the air.

“Theron brought a colleague with him from the Ferelden Circle at Kinloch who has experience with eluvian. Turns out there are more than one surviving, and the Warden Commander knows where at least one is. The colleague is an old friend of mine who traveled with him to find the eluvian in Ferelden.”

Hawke took up the tale, “Anders took them to examine the thing. Merrill’s done a good job of removing most of the Blighted poison with blood magic, but it would be an ongoing task, and likely require far more blood magic than Merrill is willing to sacrifice to keep the mirror Taint free. 

Mehariel and Enchanter Finn say the thing can’t be repaired so far as they know. And that it will continue to be a danger. Finn's seen the mirror before. They used a shard from it to scry the other eluvian's location.”

Anders added, “Since there is the other one to be studied, this one is not particularly necessary. What with the danger from the Taint and all. So Merrill took a sledgehammer to it, and is now up on Sundermount sealing up the dust that was once her dream.”

“You let Daisy go up on Sundermount by herself?” Varric raised a blonde eyebrow. He was not pleased.

Hawke looked down into his mug, “Isabela and Fenris are with her. They don’t need me.”

Varric shot a glance at Anders, who took a defiant gulp of wine. “Hawke, are you feeling sorry for yourself? You?” he made his tone as engaging as he knew how, inviting the Champion of Kirkwall to take a good look at his ludicrous statement.

The Fereldan, and why was he still thinking of himself as Fereldan, that was telling, blushed up to his bushy dark hairline. “She has no reason to stay here now, Varric. I doubt she’ll want to go back to the Sabrae,” and here there was a raspberry of disgust from Anders, “but the Warden Commander can certainly set her up with one of the other two Dalish Clans he is in contact with down in Amaranthine. She’ll be safer in Ferelden than here.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Hawke. She’ll stay here for you,” Varric shook his head, “She’s not living with you because of what you can give her Hawke.”

“That’s the point,” Hawke burst out, “I can’t give her what she wants or needs. The Dalish. Children. A life studying Elvhen history.”

“Why not?” asked the Dwarf, running blunt fingers along the carved stone stem of the goblet.

“It’s not as though you two haven’t been practicing enough,” mumbled Anders at the same time before drinking down more of the yellow wine from his own glass.

Hawke gave the mage an embarrassed glare. “Any children we will have would be half blooded. It would be polluting the Dalish gene pool. Merrill is so solid as stone about Arlathan and continuing the Dalish way. She was willing to give her blood for it, for a scrap of knowledge.”

Varric frowned, “You think Daisy is going to leave you. To go with the Warden Commander? Why? Does she have feelings for him?”

“She’s not in love with him, Hawke,” Anders pointed the now emptied glass at the Champion, “she saves that for you, oh mighty Protector of Kirkwall.”

Hawke put the mug of ale down gently, “I can not give her what she needs and deserves. She should go to Amaranthine with the Warden. He obviously cares about her. He’s married, has children, but Merrill would fit in with his Clan there. She will find a Dalish partner, have children, teach them the Dalish ways.”

“Well, now,” Varric said frankly, “You’re being ridiculous. Why borrow trouble, Hawke? And since you’re in such a generous mood, giving away Daisy without her input and all, I,” a deck of cards appeared in those competent hands, “think it’s best we play some Diamondback.”

Hawke and Varric spent the rest of the day trouncing Anders at the game. Sebastian and Aveline joined them as the day grew later. While Anders played better than the Guard Captain, Sebastian was a card sharp from the old days. “You know,” the mage pointed out as he lost yet another hand, “The other night when I was playing this in my dream I was winning!” That made the table laugh, which had been his plan in the first place.

The Warden Commander of Ferelden, Theron Mehariel, escorted Finn to the Gallows. Huge stone edifices never ceased to make him uncomfortable, though he'd grown somewhat used to being enclosed. Knight Captain Cullen greeted them at the Courtyard, and gave a small tour of the Circle, the extensive grounds encircled in stone walls. Finn was startled at the number of Tranquil, commented on it, and received information on the increase in blood mages discovered in Kirkwall. He gave Theron a meaningful look, though Theron was uncertain of his meaning. Cullen remembered the Warden Commander and expressed his delayed gratitude at the Grey Warden’s rescue during the Blight. Finn was able to give news on the inhabitants of the Kinloch Circle, which Cullen seemed to receive gratefully. The Knight Captain also begged pardon for the Knight Commander’s absence, citing that she’d become somewhat more reclusive over the years. 

Finn was pleased to meet the First Enchanter, who was practicing spell-crafting with Bethany Hawke when they arrived. The Warden Commander watched the young mage blush as he was introduced to the Hawke girl. Something to use in teasing Finn later on. Although they were monitored by two Templars standing at attention by the door, Cullen having left them with apologies for other duties, their discussion moved fluidly. Bethany managed to convey that she had seen Justice, and that the spirit was well. Mehariel thanked her gratefully for the news. “All of my companions are as family, Messere Hawke, and it does me good to know that Justice has returned home.”

Finn had a list of contacts, from Tranquil potioneers and stores masters to the First Enchanter and Bethany Hawke, for when he returned to Kinloch. The Gallows library, while not as complete as Kinloch’s, held a number of volumes the Kinloch mage’d not seen before. There was a discussion of a loan, or perhaps having a work copied. In spite of his dislike of leaving home, Finn counted himself well paid for the trip.

Merrill examined the tiny shards of mirrored dust she had poured into the hole in the rock of the cave. After thought, she dropped the leather pouch in after them. Motioning her companions to stand away, she brought a wave of searing power into the hole, adding more and more mana until the rock holding the shards glowed white hot from the flame and began to melt, flowing over what once had been a proud artifact of Arlathan. 

When the Dalish mage was finished, there was only slight dip in the slag flooring the cavern floor. Nothing to show where the actual pieces had rested before she’d turned the fire upon them. Taking the seasoned wood of the frame from her sack she stacked the pieces until they looked like a cooking fire, then set them alight with a touch more mana. The fire glowed and leapt up as she stepped back, sagging into Isabela’s arms. “I think that should do it, don’t you Isabela?” she asked.

“Kitten,” the Rivaini smiled, “I daresay that was overkill.”

Fenris said nothing, but, frowning, held out a glass vial of lyrium to the Elvhen woman. Merrill waved it away. “I just want to sit for a bit, Fenris. Thank you. I will be alright.”

They sat in the cave on Sundermount, the Tevene ex-slave, the Rivaini escapee, and the former Dalish First, watching the wood crackle and jump as the fire consumed it.


	21. Best Served Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke does an errand for Meredith, one for Orsino, and then for himself.

Over a year before, that’s when it was. Bethany Hawke brushed her shoulder length black hair, considering Grace, the apostate from Starkhaven that she’d had a run in with that day. It had not been a surprise that Bethany was called to assist with the medical check required for all mages entering the Gallows back then. Usually, though, it was for children brought in when their magic manifested. There had been so many appearing today that all Healers had been asked to work in the Clinic. 

All mages went into quarantine upon entry into the Gallows. Bethany’s had been longer than most. The Knight Commander had told her it was because she had never been Circle trained, and as an adult she had much to learn in the way of how the Circle worked. Bethany had been trained by a Circle mage, and it had not taken her long to fit in. Bethany had been thoroughly educated in any number of useful spell castings that would be useful in everyday life. Many of the mages here did not know much of anything actually useful.

Grace even now was tattooed, and gaunt, and a year ago when she answered the Templar’s intake questions, it was obvious that the apostates who had escaped from the Starkhaven Circle had burnt had starved in the wastes, and finally turned themselves in. Resentful and caustic, Grace had not endeared herself to Bethany. It was later, after the Healers had taken the group en masse to be fed that one of the Templars referred to Bethany by her last name. If Bethany had thought Grace was caustic before, the response when Grace discovered Bethany’s link to Gareth Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, was ten fold. 

It is hard to be disliked. Bethany was becoming used to it, as many Templars tended to hate their charges. Thankfully, not Knight Captain Cullen. The man could not completely turn around the poisonous atmosphere engendered by the Knight Commander, but he did influence it. Harder still to be disliked by a mage that Bethany was trying to help. 

Time passed. Grace’s attitude did not improve. Bethany learned to avoid her, and because of her, the rest of the Starkhaven apostates. It bothered her, as Alain, who had come to the Circle with Thrask earlier had been a friend. Now he did not speak to her, and spent all of his time with Grace and the other Starkhaven mages. Today had been an example of that, when she’d spoken to the boy casually, only to have Grace respond venomously.

It was a surprise, then, when Alain appeared in the Apprentices’ Tower asking Bethany for help. The request was couched in a whisper, his face turned away from the other mages in the common area. “Bethany, may I speak with you? In private? It is important!”

Bethany gave a look around the room, nodded, and followed the young mage out into the hallway. “Alain?” was all she had a chance to ask before she realized that Grace was standing there in the shadows, a knife in her hand. Then Bethany knew nothing else.

Gareth Hawke pawed through the pile of correspondence to find a letter from the First Enchanter Orsino. Hawke, Varric, Fenris, and Anders had been tracking down three escapees from the Gallows for the Knight Commander. Well, Merrill had been with them in the Alienage tracking down an Elvhen mage named Huon. They arrived in time to see him murdering his wife in the name of the Elvhen people. Blood magic that did not avail him in the face of Hawke’s rage and Merrill’s grief. Merrill had known Nyssa, had heard her story and bought goods from her shop. Hawke had taken his lover home, leaving her in the care of Orana.

They tracked the de Launcet boy, Emile, his parents pointing him toward the Hanged Man. Hawke and Anders watched in stupification as the unattractive child followed a waitress up the stairs to the rooms to cast away his virginity. It did not take a particularly long time. Anders bit his lip to avoid a comment. Fenris gave a quiet snort. Hawke sent the boy on his way to the Gallows Dock to turn himself back in to the Circle.

“Honestly, Hawke,” Anders watched him go, “Is there no sex whatsoever in the Gallows? I mean,” he had to think of how he wanted to say it, “At Kinloch we took what we could get, and that whenever it was offered. How tight does Stannard have her hand on the reins there, that a kid like that could not lose his virginity? He wasn’t that repulsive. I’m surprised the Templars didn’t offer. I’ve known enough that had a fetish for virginity.”

Hawke looked grim at the thought. Anders realized his mistake, “Oh. Hawke! Bethany is safe. The Templars wouldn’t lay a hand on her. She’s too high profile.”

Hawke turned and his eyes were cold, “No one should have to be in fear of that. No one, no matter what relation they are to anyone.”

Amber eyes stared into Fereldan blue, “No,” Anders agreed steadily, “No one should.”

The third escapee was known to Anders, a woman who had fled the Kinloch Circle, had gathered up refugee children in her flight from the Blight in Ferelden, and had gone to the Gallows for assistance. She’d turned herself in, begging for food and care for the children. Meredith Stannard had locked her away in a mage’s cell in the Circle, and left the children in Darktown to starve. It was one of the arguments Anders had used with Sebastian on the cruelty of Meredith Stannard and the evil of the Gallows. Evelina attacked the children, when Hawke and his company cornered her in the sewers, and turning abomination they had to destroy her. Anders had been silent when they returned to Hawke’s mansion, and was now scrubbing his skin furiously as though the blood stains would never come off.

Downstairs, Hawke sorted through the letters, and found a note from Orsino. Unwilling to drag Merrill or Anders back into the fight between the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander, Hawke went off to find Fenris, Varric, and Sebastian. There was a meeting in Hightown in the darkness. When Hawke appeared, the Templars and Mages there together attacked him. There was no way to stop the fight until all opponents lay dead. 

A note Varric found on the bodies led them to the Docks. At the Docks were more Templars, and more Mages, working together. Of course, they were working together to kill Hawke, but it struck him as amusing that they were trying to stop someone who supported what they were doing. Well, Hawke did not support the murderous attack, but the whole Mages working with Templars for a better world thing, the big Fereldan could support that. Keran was here. Still not possessed, but obviously frightened. He refused to fight Hawke, but he did tell them that someone close to the Champion had been kidnapped by the rebels and taken to the Wounded Coast. Hawke let Keran go. Hawke promised not to tell on the Templars. Maker alone knew what Meredith would do to anyone who stood against her.

Keran, blonde and young and innocent when they had rescued the boy from the blood mages. Of course, Hawke reminded himself how innocent would a man of his age be? Keran was from Lowtown. It was no child. Keran was old enough to sign up for Templar service, work a job, take part in a marriage covenant. Keran was adult enough to stand against his compatriots and refuse to fight against Hawke and companions. No, Keran was not a boy.

Keran’s warning, though. ‘They’ had someone. Someone of Hawke’s. It would be Merrill or Bethany. 

Merrill was at home, secure in Hawke’s bed where she was sleeping of a mixture of valerian that Anders swore by. Anders was home as well. The Healing mage might not agree with Merrill most times, but he would never allow a blood mage nor a Templar to take the Dalish woman. Even here, in the Docks, they’d have heard the explosion if any intruder had attacked the Amerll mansion. Well, perhaps not, Sebastian pointed out, but for certain one of the household would have come to them to warn of an abduction.

Bethany. His little sister who was trapped at the Gallows. Trapped and ‘safeguarded’ by Templars. Hawke looked at the remains of the Templars and mages, not even blood mages but definitely Circle mages, that littered the warehouse. These Templars had made good an escape for these mages, and they had Bethany. He would rend them limb from limb.

The Wounded Coast was cold and windy, as always. Keran’s words, ‘They have taken someone you care for’ ran through Hawke’s head in a neverending track of their own. Slipping sideways along the sand dunes that topped the cliffs, Hawke, Fenris, Varric, and Sebastian met with Samson, addicted to lyrium and falling further into his own hell. Samson was a very good example of what Meredith might do to the Templars in her care. Banned from service, left to die of lyrium withdrawal.

The Templars were led by Thrask. Pity, as Hawke rather liked the older Templar, and had pitied the loss of his daughter Olivia. Grace, the Starkhaven mage, lover of the blood mage that had attacked Hawke when they’d gone in to help those escaped mages at Thrask’s urging, was there, sneering. Sesbastian murmured, a quiet proverb that there is no one who hates you so much as a being who owes you their life. 

Bethany, though, was lying unconscious on the sandy ground. Thrask apologized. Thrask begged for Hawke to stand with them, to save the mages. Hawke, no matter what he wishes for the Gallows mages, wants only to see his sleeping sister set free. He sees Alain standing by his sister’s body, and the look he gives the boy does not bode well. 

Grace, though, will not yield. The haunted mage butchers Thrask, using the blood spurting from his cut body to raise evil to attack them. Fight they must, and strive to protect Bethany, lying unconscious in the sand. Alain has taken on the role of protector here, and stands over Hawke’s sister’s body, ensuring her safety.

Grace is cut in half by a two handed sword, Rather, her body is divided by two swords, Hawke’s and Fenris’ cutting through in opposite directions, enabling the Pride Demon held within to emerge. The comments from his friends behind him mirror each other. No one is in disbelief. Pride, of course, was the single most dangerous sin of everyone in the Gallows.

At the end, Alain begs for mercy. The boy, even younger than Keran, uses blood magic to free Bethany. Bethany wakes, understandably annoyed, to find that the action is over. Hawke wants nothing more than to hold onto his baby sister and keep her safe. Enveloping Bethany in a tight embrace, Hawke did not release her until a squad of Templars arrived, too late to do anything but deal with the bodies. “Bethany,” Hawke’s voice is muffled in her dark hair, “We need to get you out. Anywhere but the Gallows. Anywhere!”

Bethany’s grip is no less fierce, “Are you so sure that it is worth it to continue running, Gareth? I don’t want to leave to become a fugitive again.”

What else is there to say to that? Hawke maintains his arm around Bethany’s waist, imposing, even in the face of bright Templar steel plate. Cullen’s questions are direct. Meredith knows of the uprising, the rebellion. Nothing good with come from this, and Hawke thinks it’s possible that Bethany will be caught in the crossfire. “Tell Meredith that I ask her to grant them mercy.”

Mercy will be granted. That night the parapets of the Gallows are empty. But in the weeks to come, bodies hang there. Mage and Templar both, punished for the sin of attempting to work together. Proof enough of blood thralldom, Knight Commander Stannard states. Tranquility will not work on the Templars. And so it turns out that there are much worse things for a Templar as punishment than lyrium withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the continuity error. I mentioned Eveline and Walter and Cricket previously in this story, AND in Blood Magic, Fear, and Faith. So those are out of order. Please excuse the error, which will take some effort to fix, and I'll worry about it after NaNoWriMo.


	22. The Fuse

The hangings disturbed Hawke. Would Knight Captain Cullen have hanged Alain and the mages and Templars in the uprising that Hawke had stopped if the Champion had not requested mercy? Would Cullen have hanged his own at the behest of Meredith Stannard? Wasn’t there a prison that the Templars ran? Aeonar. That was it. Would that not have been a more appropriate place for the rebels to consider their sins?

Hawke had put many people to death. People and beings and things. He did not think he had killed an innocent. Or rather, he did not believe he had killed someone who was not in the progress of committing a murder or a severe crime. The majority of those dead at his hand had been attacking the Ferelden, a family member or loved one, or simply attacking someone in the street. The Darkspawn at Ostagar were not innocent. Shades and demons and any manner of fright from the Caves on Sundermount or the Deep Roads, those were not innocent.

Standing on the Docks looking to the Gallows, Hawke knew that if he allowed Anders to be taken, Meredith Stannard would not be satisfied with performing the Rite of Tranquility on the man. She’d do that. She’d perform the rite because it was the worst possible torment for Anders. And then she’d hang the former mage from the battlements, just as she had hung those that the crows were picking at now. The woman would not understand her way to be brutal. Or possibly not cruel, but she also did not see this as unjust. As for these men swinging in the breeze from over the harbor, Hawke had too little information. He did not know what their crime had been. It was too many to be a murder. And they were not all mages. Some were big and burly, looked like soldiers. Nor all Templars. Several were the willowy slender of a Circle Mage. Hard to say what their lot had been, since they were covered in rags instead of robes or armor.

Bethany was back at the Circle, and Hawke had asked Sebastian to speak with Cullen when he came to the Keep on regular Templar business. Cullen used to send a lieutenant, but lately the Knight Captain had been taking the trip at least every other day. 

Well, the Ferelden immigrant had been standing here on the wharf next to the Gallows’ dock for too long. Too long staring at horror. This was a different horror than fighting Darkspawn. He was stiffening up as well. Stretching in his armor unsettled the plates, so the big fighter had to shift about to get them in alignment once again. He spit into the harbor, took a last look at the bodies swinging from the Gallows’ stone, and turned to make his way up through town. Folk passing through the street took looks at that grim face and moved quickly from the Champion’s path. 

Sebastian moved quietly past the Templars guarding the Viscount’s Keep. He knew the way to Aveline’s office well, and had received a note from Knight Captain Cullen that he would meet the Chantry brother after his appointment with Aveline. Frowning, Sebastian realized that he did not recognize any of the men stationed here. Sebastian was used to the give and take of greeting, especially with the Templar Order. With the men executed so recently and still swinging from the gallows at the Gallows, the number of those who were dead at Hawke’s hands, and desertion, Meredith was getting replacements from somewhere. She certainly was not recruiting them all from Kirkwall, Keran notwithstanding.

What was it that Cullen had told them when Hawke visited the Gallows Courtyard? Templar was not a job that was outwardly rewarding. It was a losing battle. It was a fight against a growing population of mages, in a world where Templars were increasingly perceived as oppressors. Sebastian was sad to admit that he had seen abuses by the Templar Order. Much as he had become aware of a similar issue in the Chantry. But abuse of power could be anywhere. Look at Ferelden and the Usurper Loghain. Look at Guard Captain Jeven, who had overseen the Kirkwall Guard before Aveline.

“Sebastian!” Cullen called to him from the door to Aveline’s office. 

Aveline stood by the Knight Captain with the stone cold control that meant she was very angry indeed. Sebastian gave her a look, received the tiniest of head shakes. “Aveline, I hope it’s not a problem if I take the Knight Captain from you?”

“Not. At. All.” Her tone was not angry, but the shortness, clipped words, they spoke volumes that her face did not.

There were overly polite farewells, then Cullen along aside Sebastian as he walked along the halls, down the steps, and out of the Keep. It was not until they were away from the Templar guards that Sebastian spoke. “You are encouraging Aveline to take on more Templars in place of the City Guard?”

“She is not in a position to dispute with us about the need for a stronger, more military presence in the city. At least until a new Viscount is chosen. And possibly after,” Cullen said tightly.

“No, I expect not,” Sebastian returned mildly, “Though I have been one of those assisting with the patrols of the streets at night. I tend not to see Templars down on the Docks, or in Darktown.”

Cullen groaned, “Nor will you. The Knight Commander wants the Hightown to be kept safe. Guard Captain Aveline can not deny the nobility, who are calling for more guard presence. The Lowtown Markets will also be covered.”

“But not those space where the poor exist, and the criminals thrive?” Sebastian was not smiling.

“No,” that was low, “Except when we go hunting for apostates there. We are an army, but we have limitations.”

Sebastian was quiet as they walked down the steps toward Lowtown, “There has been no statement made about the hangings?”

“Rebels,” Cullen’s words trembled slightly, impossible to tell if it was anger at or for the rebels, “It is within the Knight Commander’s purview to execute punishment to those who flagrantly violate the law.”

“What law?” Sebastian was gathering information not just for Hawke, but for the Grand Cleric as well.

“The law according to Meredith Stannard,” Cullen stopped, then went on sadly, “I do not know how much longer I can follow the path she has chosen. It may be, Sebastian, that you will see my corpse swinging at the Gallows, for refusing to follow an order.”

“Is that what those men did?” Sebastian kept his pace steady. He had just this walk with Cullen, from the Keep down to the Gallows dock. The Knight Captain rarely even came to the Chantry even for confession now.

“They were Templars sworn to follow orders. Who refused to perform the Rite of Tranquility on mages accused of Blood Magery. The mages were made Tranquil, and then they, too, were hanged alongside the Templars,” now Cullen’s words were cold, not the cold of anger, but the chill of a lack of emotion.

“Andraste have mercy!” Sebastian knew not what to say, “What of the Templar prison?”

“Aeonar?” Cullen shook his head, “The Knight Commander exercises judgement over her troops, and over the mages within the Circle.”

Sebastian was silent for a time, then as the Docks came into sight, “Is there no way to contain the Knight Commander?”

Cullen stopped, and when he turned to look at his friend, the Knight Captain’s grief and fear was vivid in those wide eyes, “The Knight Captain can remove her from Service with Just Cause. She has not crossed the line of the law. She is treading it very carefully.”

Reading forward, the Chantry brother put his hand on the cold steel pauldron of the Knight Captain of the Templar Order in Kirkwall. “Maker grant you strength and wisdom in the path you choose to follow, Cullen. For what it’s worth, you have my support. And, I believe, Hawke’s if you need it.”

No expression on that usually open face. Then a stiff nod. “Thank you, Sebastian, I will keep that in mind,” and the Knight Captain strode alone down to the Gallows Dock to return to the Circle Fortress.

Grand Cleric Elthina was finishing the liturgy of the Chant, preparing to dismiss the congregation when a Revered Mother gave the signal for her attention. Turning the final instruction over to her Assistant, Elthina walked calmly off to hear the urgent issue. “

“Yes, Revered Mother?” Elthina could think of nothing that would warrant such unseemly haste.

“Your Grace,” the woman bobbed, which was more formality than Elthina required, “the First Enchanter, Orsino,” as though the Grand Cleric did not know who the First Enchanter was, “is causing a disturbance on the steps of the Viscount’s Keep!”

“What type of disturbance?” visions of a mage gone mad bloomed.

“He is preaching freedom for mages,” the woman sounded more frightened than was required for the situation, “and the Knight Commander has arrived at the Docks.”

Ah. There it was. A situation that could be very bad indeed. The Grand Cleric nodded, then went to the robing room to change out of her heavy vestments from the service.

Hawke heard noise. The rumble of a crowd of excited citizens. He’d heard it before, and it generally was not a good sign. Crowds in Kirkwall did not gather for pleasant circumstances, unless they were planned well in advance. Especially now, under the supervision of the Templars. This sound was practically outside his door, actually, and Bodahn came to notify him of the disturbance.

“Serrah Hawke, the First Enchanter is making a speech from the steps of the Keep. About the treatment of mages. He is drawing a crowd,” Bodahn was no fool. He’d made arrangements to get himself and Sandal out of Kirkwall. They were going to Orlais. Hawke had wondered if they’d take Orana with them. He worried for their safety.

“Bodahn, please get my sword and armor. I need to go out,” Hawke looked around at his home. Looked up the stairs and decided against dragging Merrill into this, “Would you please as Anders if he would accompany me?”


	23. Striking the Match

A grue crept up Gareth Hawke’s spine when he remembered Orsino leading the Qunari away from these steps, allowing the Templars and Hawke’s company to get into the Keep during the Qunari invasion. Orsino had also used these stairs to speak to the people of Kirkwall, begging them to see Meredith for the Tyrant she was, asking them to demand appointment of a Viscount for their own sakes.

Anders stomach lurched. Hawke knew that Meredith had sent for the Rite of Annulment. He was telling them that Keran had said that the Knight Commander had sent to Val Royeaux, and that long ago. Keran had died over the matter of Thrask and the Starkhaven mages. So this had been long in the planning. And Hawke had known about it and done nothing. Anders did not know what to think as he heard “Your refusal to cooperate in the matter of the blood mages of the Gallows Circle is proof positive that the Rite needs to be used,” fall from the Knight Commander’s mouth. 

Sebastian listened to the First Enchanter plead for the lives of his people, offered himself up in their stead. Meredith was colder than stone and adamant in her decision. Surely, surely Elthina would step in and prevent this. The Grand Cleric had been the balance, the pivot point so often in the past. The Knight Commander’s voice was harsh and showed no humanity.

Fenris, standing calm behind Hawke and watching and waiting heard a voice. It was familiar, calling them both to attention, Orsino and Meredith, a voice that was not so stern, nor so weak. Meredith, Orsino,” the Grand Cleric Elthina greeted them calmly, though she must be aware of events. Hawke thought so as he noted the flush in those aged cheeks. Elthina had hurried then. 

“It is time to calm, and to take this discussion out of the public eye,” there was relief on Orsino’s face, mirrored on each visage in the square that was not framed by a Templar’s armor. The townspeople did not want this discord in their sight.

“No,” still cold, but with a touch of passion, “Grand Cleric,” the Knight Commander motioned to her detachment of Templars, “I believe it is time for you to go back to the Chantry. The City is under martial law. I am in authority here.”

Aveline’s look of shock was both outraged and fearful at the statement, though the order for martial law had been in effect since the death of Viscount Dumar. At the outcry of the citizens, the Templars drew their weapons and awaited Meredith Stannard’s next order.

“Meredith,” Elthina was stern, “You will turn your arms over to the Lieutenant and submit yourself to Captain Cullen in the Gallows. Step down.”

Meredith nodded, smiling as though Elthina had spoken as expected, “The Grand Cleric is clearly under the influence of blood magic. Escort her to the Gallows instead.” Templars stepped forward to do her bidding.

“No,” it was Hawke, “You’re not taking Elthina anywhere!” his sword was drawn, and he placed himself before the Grand Cleric and her accompanying bevy robed Chantry Sisters and Mothers. 

Those cold, inhuman eyes flicked past the Champion of Kirkwall to Elthina, then over to the blonde mage and tiny Dalish woman at his side. “I do not need to ask whose blood magic enthralled the Grand Cleric, do I, Hawke?” the name was spit out, “And under whose influence you act, even now.” The Knight Commander barked, “Follow your orders,” her Templars were blocked by the huge champion, by the eerily glowing elf, by the Kirkwall Guard Captain and her patrol. Turning, Meredith Stannard looked to threaten the First Enchanter, but Anders and Merrill stood now to protect the mages, with Isabela and Varric Tethrys.

“I go to gather my Templars. The Rite of Annulment will be performed,” as Meredith Stannard, Knight Commander of the Gallows Circle in Kirkwall, swept away, followed by her soldiers.

Orsino bowed to Hawke, his eyes flickering over Elthina’s before speaking to the Champion, “I must go. Certainly I can rally the mages at the Gallows, defend them, before Meredith can destroy them all.” He was gone, alone, but for what Guards Aveline sent after him with a look and short word.

Hawke turned to the woman behind him. Maker, Elthina looked aged. “Your Grace?” he asked with concern.

She put a hand up, palm outward silencing him and all who would speak, “Gareth Hawke, I know that you will do what you will without my consent or approval. I remain here, or rather, in the Chantry. The people of Kirkwall will need somewhere to gather. Out of the way of the war that is about to be fought.”

Hawke’s works sounded like an order, though there was no need for one, “Sebastian, take her to the Chantry. Watch over her.”

Elthina looked up into the big fighter’s face and nodded. Her eyes sought out Anders, still standing with Merrill where Orsino had left them. “The Templars have broken with the Chantry, and they are fighting the mages, Anders. Is this not what Justice was seeking? I, for one, am glad that I did not have to die for this. Though I’d give my life gladly to stop the bloodshed I see coming.”

Anders’ unsmiling face twitched. “Stay safe, Elthina,” it was almost inaudible.

They watched the elderly woman, she moved slowly, as if carrying a great burden, walking with Sebastian and her retinue away toward the Chantry.

Hawke’s attention was now on Merrill, he’d moved to her side before the Grand Cleric had gone. “Merrill,” he started, but was interrupted.

“You will not make me leave, Hawke,” that clear lovely voice was matter of fact, “I will not leave your side while you face the Knight Commander and the Templars.” How well she knew him to understand where he would fight.

“Merrill, he started again, his body shielding their conversation from all others, “I need to know that you are safe.”

“You need to know that I will not leave you, Gareth Hawke, my heart. I will be at your side fighting with you,” so certain, surer of herself than he’d ever heard her.

Hawke’s voice was quiet, begging, “Merrill, please. Go with Isabela and sort out an escape for us. We will need to leave in a hurry when this battle is over. Right now, you need to get to the Harbor and secure us passage out of Kirkwall.”

He watched her, the big dark haired, dark bearded Ferelden, as she took Isabela and ran off, barefooted, through the disgusting streets of Kirkwall. Hawke’s eyes tracked back to where Bodahn stood, with his son and Orana. No words necessary, as the Dwarf nodded to the Champion and herded the other pair back to the house.

There was no chance to speak to the rest. Fenris, serious, grim, brooding, declared, “I follow you, Hawke,” before there was anything said.

Anders followed that with, “You are attacking the Gallows, Hawke? You can not expect to leave me behind!” The butter haired mage opened his eyes wide, then fluttered his eyelashes in manner like a flirtatious noblewoman. 

It almost made Gareth laugh, but this was not a time for laughing. Aveline gave him no chance to speak either, “Right. Hawke. I must find Donnic and get the Guard prepared to protect the city from both sides. I will meet you at the Gallows.”

And so, it was Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, in accord with Fenris, Anders, and Varric Tethrys, who followed the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter through the city to the Gallows.  
…

Elthina and Sebastian, the Revered Mothers and the Sisters of the Chantry reached the Chantry doors gaping open, like a wide devouring mouth. The entry hall echoed, empty of souls. Where were they? “Gone,” rang a voice, deep and pleased with itself, “Frightened and fleeing out of the darkness. No lights are lit in the Chantry now.”

A mage, capped in a red hood and backed by an army of shades, raised his elaborately carved staff and called forth a demon of Pride.  
…

Aveline strode in to the Viscount’s Keep to find it empty of Templars. There were nobles here, male and female, clustered in a flock like chickens looking for leadership. Aveline called for all Guardsmen, everyone regardless of schedule, and they emptied the Keep of people before closing it, locking it down solidly, and moved out into the City. Keeping order was impossible, as parts were already burning, but the Kirkwall Guard would do it damnedest to fight chaos. With them they took what parts of the nobility were willing and able to fight. The others, they directed out of the city to the flanks of Sundermount. Private guards were requested, then commandeered to safeguard the civilians. 

Runners were sent to Lowtown and Darktown and the Docks to notify the people there. Safer on Sundermount than to be in the middle of the battle.

…

Hawke found himself searching the combatants for familiar faces. Keran, Paxley, the Knight Captain, impossible to determine faces, though, behind the bucket like helmets of the Templars,. Alain, Emile de Launcet, his parents must be worried, or the First Enchanter. Or, Maker forbid, Bethany. Perhaps meeting Bethany would solve a problem?

Hawke could grab his sister and just get out of Kirkwall. Avoid the coming battle. He’d sent Merrill to look for a way out of Kirkwall. No, he was not precisely certain of Isabela’s stories about getting them all out. Bodahn and Sandal and Orana, well, he’d just have to trust that the Dwarf would take care of the Elvhen girl.

No. No! If Hawke left now, then it left Meredith free to perform the Rite of Annulment and that could not be allowed. Alright then. Through abominations and Templars and demons and smites and fire spells against the fire and fall of Kirkwall, Hawke, Varric, Fenris and Anders made their way to the Docks.

On the Ferry over to the Gallows no one spoke much. Sebastian had met them. The Chantry was in flames, but Elthina was safe enough. Isabela and Merrill were waiting on the Ferry for them. “The things I do for you, Hawke,” she said with a punch to his armored shoulder before she went to Fenris. No kiss as greeting, but a look into his eyes, and an arm around that slender Elvhen waist. His reply was her name in a deep, intimate tone.

Aveline joined them last, giving command and a deep kiss to Donnic before boarding the flat bottomed barge with the rest. 

In almost no time the ferry was bumping against the Gallows docking and Hawke stepped forward to do battle.


	24. Mage Fire and Templar Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for the Gallows.

The not quite empty hall where Orsino and his mages were grouped to fight for their lives against the Templars was a dead end. Hawke moved past Cullen’s words at the Courtyard, listening, one always listened to an opponent, but refusing to yield. The Knight Captain would not go against the Knight Commander. Hawke knew that, although the Champion of Kirkwall did not repeat Elthina’s words, and motioned for Sebastian to be silent. They were allowed through because Cullen suspected they could not be stopped. But the Templars would fight them, and the mages. Odds were not on the Champion’s side.

Dressed in Tevinter robes and feathered pauldrons despite Fenris’ presence, Anders looked at the tiny number of mages remaining. These, this pittance, were all that held the line while the rest of the Kirkwall Circle escaped through the tunnels lyrium smugglers used under the Gallows for decades. The Spirit Healer was not looking forward to facing Cullen in a fight. Their eyes had met after the Knight Captain had given Hawke his warning. Anders cocking an eyebrow at the Templar, who shook his head slightly in response. Then the Knight Captain had murmured some words to Sebastian, who returned some form of blessing. Anders felt a lift from his shoulders. Cullen might have suspected, no to be honest, he knew that Anders had been here all along. Sebastian had confirmed that months ago when he learned about Anders’ death sentence. It felt good to look the Templar in the eye and feel no fear from him. Fear was in plenty here, but Anders was not, right now, afraid of Cullen. He respected the man, but to not be afraid of a Templar, it was a unique feeling. 

Now they were here, waiting. Everyone that the Champion of Kirkwall could marshall. Hawke looked across his ‘soldiers’, Alain and Emile de Launcet among them in the huddle of robed mages from the Circle at the end of the hall. The boys were frightened, de Launcet was white as a sheet. Maker, they should have been sent out with the apprentices! Orsino looking calm, but his fingers were white on the thin staff he held. Bethany! Hawke held her tight, hugging hard. No need to tell of the last words before the battle began, orf the waves of Templars attacking and being thrown back. It was exhausting and long. But the attacks finally ended.

The horror was watching Orsino despair and turn to blood magic. All too late, Hawke understood who the ‘O’ in Quentin’s note must have been. A towering amalgam of flesh, hideous and worse than abomination towered over them. Anders was shouting behind him, “What in the Void is that?”

That was near impossible to kill. Hawke’s blade sliced through tissue that had once been the mages of the circle, and the Templars who had been their guard. Alain and Emile had not been dead when Orsino called his creation, not killed by the Templars. Their death were wholly Orsino, destroying those whom he had sworn to protect, serve, and save to cause insanity.

Hawke cursed, consigning the First Enchanter to the Void as he and the fighters and rogues danced around the literal pile of flesh, slicing off pieces, chasing the skittering head that was the tiny remains of Orsino. Again and again they moved about the room, chasing it as that part abandoned the hulk of flesh to the blades and arrows of the fighters and rogues and spells of Bethany, Anders of Merrill, hissing at them and running about the room seeking escape. Exhaustion weighed heavily on them all when the Champion finally put his sword through the brain of what had been the First Enchanter Orsino.

Ragged breathing could be heard through the hall. Hawke counted those that remained. Merrill and Bethany, thank the Maker. Merrill was kneeling by the dog, making much of him. Bethany and Anders had heads together and were healing Isabela of a sluggishly bleeding, but deep slash across her flat belly from the Orsino creature’s claws. The Rivaini’s hair was loose from the blue cloth that normally contained it. Fenris had that tucked into his belt. The Healers had already cast on several nasty bite marks from when Fenris got close enough to sink his own steel clawed hands into the monster’s body. It had been a revolting sight, gobbets of flesh ripped and flung aside.

Sebastian was moving about the room retrieving arrows for himself, and bolts for Varric, his lips moving in the Chant. It was a familiar and oddly comforting sight among the disfigured dead. Varric Tethras was sitting, back against a rail, scribbling on a scrap of paper from his notebooks, Bianca propped across his knees. Dropping down by the Dwarf, Hawke began to clean his immense sword, then moved on to re-sharpen it, to hone out the nicks. Fenris joined him, then Isabela, and the grinding sound of whetstones on blades echoed in the hall.

Unable to put it off any longer, the Champion of Kirkwall stood, his armor and his joints creaking, and readied himself to move on. “Hold on,” Anders shouted, and he and Bethany cast and cast and cast restorative spells on them all, and each other. Swallowing down lyrium potions the mages nodded, ready for the next bit. The next bit was a slog. Rooms filled with demons and shades, with mages turned to blood use, or enthralled by desire, and Templars possessed. Not one that they could save. There was no time, and no way.

Sandal, oddly, appeared with supplies and few words and then the party was faced with the Templars’ Courtyard, then with Meredith and Orsino’s offices, and finally the quiet garden where they’d met Meredith’s Tranquil assistant. They cleared the area, the four Pride demons in the garden were among the worst. Hawke would not leave an enemy at his back. 

Finally, there was only a single gate between them and the Main Courtyard. There waited Meredith Stannard, Knight Commander of the Templar Order. She faced them in the bright sunshine reflected from the white stones of the Courtyard. How had so little time passed when so much death had occurred? That brassy hair shone, but those dark brows were like lowering clouds. Standing amid dead bodies that littered the flagstones, Meredith put forth a great deal of posturing ending with the direction that the Knight Captain take Hawke into custody and prepare to execute the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Obvious to all that Cullen was shocked. “Knight Commander, this is not what we discussed. The Champion was to be arrested.”

“Insane,” Hawke thought, “She is insane if she thinks I will go quietly, even for Cullen.”

By that time Cullen had refused the duty, and formally directing the Knight Commander to stand down, as he was removing her from office. Meredith, in turn, accused her straight-as-one-of-Sebastian’s-arrows Knight Commander of being in thrall to blood mages. Chaos. Well, it had been here in the Gallows before, stalking mages in the form of corrupt Templars. Now it was here in the courtyard with them. This corruption, however, was not completely that of human desire for power.

A shout from Varric told the big Fereldan that the sword had been recognized by others as Hawke had seen it. The red lyrium. Meredith was the mysterious woman to whom Bartrand Tethras, had sold the idol. She had made a sword out of the metal that had destroyed Varric’s brother’s mind. A glow, very wrong, shone from the Knight Commander’s eyes. Slamming the red metalled sword into the paving stones, Meredith Stannard called the statues, the groveling representations of slaves that Hawke had hated from his first moment in this place, and the equally loathsome sworded guardians, to live.

They shambled forward, metal joints groaning to attack not just the party, but Cullen and his Templars, now fighting at Hawke’s side. A shadow appeared to divert whirling bronze from Bethany’s fragile mage-robe clad body. Cheeky grin, tow colored hair, and tattoos down his cheek, Zevran Arainai, and not at all expected, but welcome nonetheless. They were not alone. The Templars, yes, but Nathaniel Howe, clad in Grey Warden blue and silver, set his arrows as well as Sebastian. Donnic Hendyr had joined them, protecting his Captain’s back, faithful with her to the end. It was not enough. Yet they managed to hold their own, destroying the statues, and frustrating Meredith’s attacks.

It was then the Knight Commander, or what was left of her, demanded that the Maker destroy them all. In that moment of hubris, of making herself judge, jury, and ordering the Maker to play executioner, the red lyrium ate her alive, transforming her body into a agonized statue, itself composed of the defiled lyrium.

Cullen, Knight Captain and now Acting Commander of the Templar Garrison at the Gallows Circle of Kirkwall, watched the Champion of Kirkwall, the big Fereldan Gareth Hawke, walk away from the site of Meredith Stannard’s bitter defeat. The big Fereldan was leaning on the small Dalish mage, and curled an arm around his sister, Bethany. Cullen made no move to stop the only remaining of his mages from leaving. The assortment of oddities trailed after him, heading for the Harbor. 

Anders walked tall, not his relaxed slouch remembered from the Kirkwall Circle. The Healer mage had deliberately called a wisp to circle slowly around his head, changing colors as it went. Either done with hiding, or enjoying the moment he was able to admit to being a mage. Beside him marched the Grey Warden, a dark fellow who watched from side to side, as though expecting continued attack. Near, but not with them flowed the Antivan Crow that Cullen remembered from the Hero of Ferelden’s entourage at Kirkwall. 

Varric Tethras was talking quickly, his free hand moving to expostulate, his unusual crossbow canted back to rest over his shoulder. Beside him were the woman who looked like a pirate, festooned with gold and bright colors, her hands were on one knife, and one Elvhen fighter’s arse. The fighter seemed not to particularly mind.

Last were the Guard Captain, Aveline Hendyr and her husband, marching, as though to guard those who walked before them.

Cullen turned to the Chantry brother who stood beside him. “Will you bring the Grand Cleric here?” he asked, “It would be safer than the Chantry for now.”

Sebastian nodded. “First I will need to get her off of Isabela’s ship. Do you have quarters for the Revered Mothers and Sisters as well? They are all crammed into the hold of the ‘Siren’s Call’, and I can not picture Isabela wanting any of them to remain there.”

“You know,” Cullen did not scuff his feet, had not since he was a recruit, “That I should have taken them all into custody.”

Sebastian’s accent was broad, “An’ how do ye think that would have gone for ye, my friend?”

Acting Knight Commander Cullen leant his shield against a leg he was trying to keep steady, “Not well, I think.”

Sebastian smiled and agreed. “Enough blood spilled today. Time to rebuild.”

Cullen turned to look the Chantry Brother in the eye, “Sebastian,” it was hesitant, “This was only the beginning of the troubles for Hawke. You know that, don’t you? The Templar Order will put out a warrant for his arrest. The Seekers will come after him.”

A thoughtful nod in reply.

Cullen went on, “And Maker and Andraste only know what will happen when the other Circles hear about what went on here today. I see trouble on the horizon.

Not to mention that we are now a Circle with no mages.”

Another nod. “Some will return,” Sebastian hazarded, “and perhaps it is time for a change. Not an Exalted March, but perhaps Kirkwall is not the best place for a mage to be quartered to begin with. Did Meredith share what Elthina told her about the foundations of the city? No? 

When Elthina and I return, I will have a story to tell you.”

Sebastian threw him a smile as the Chantry Brother ran to catch up with Hawke and his people.  
It was a marvel. He, the Champion, had fought his way through the Gallows, protecting the mages from Templars and themselves. Cullen had no doubt that many of the mages were now loose on the Wounded Coast or the slopes of Sundermount. Part of his duty as Acting Commander would be to start collecting them again. They would be relieved that Hawke had destroyed Meredith Stannard.

No, Meredith Stannard had destroyed herself. No agency of Hawke’s had caused her transformation. Cullen was certain that he would be reprimanded for his actions now. He turned a broad, armored back on the disappearing gang, and went to take control of what remained of the Kirkwall Circle.


	25. Sailing into the Sunset.

“Well, I’ll be damned, Rivaini. This might actually work the way you said,” Varric Tethras, Merchant Prince of Kirkwall looked over the ‘Siren’s Call’ the way a king might look at a potboy. An industrious and overly inventive potboy. Obviously, the ‘Siren’s Call’ was not the Hanged Man.

They were on a wooden sailing vessel, Varric knew she was fast as a smuggler's vessel should be, off the center of the Kirkwall Harbor Docks, as far away from the fires as possible. Sailors that the Dwarf did not know went about their tasks, ignoring the small group clustered about Isabela. Ships all about them were making sail out of the harbor, crowding to be among the first to escape. The ‘Siren’s Call’ sat at anchor by a long wharf, gently bobbing in the wash from the other vessels. The sounds of panic, screams of terror and anguish, those were gone now that the Gallows was under control of the Templars once again, and the Kirkwall Guard were visibly patrolling the smoking streets, arresting looters, and overseeing the re-entry of the citizens back to their places of either employment or residence, provided they kept away from the still burning portions of the Docks and Chantry.

Things were not back to normal. Not yet. Kirkwall, however, was used to violence, and had lived her, at times, seamy life for long enough to get over minor setbacks. “Don’t disparage my lovely ship, Varric. She’ll get us all where we need to go,” Isabela leaned back against the wooden railing of the deck.

“Not me, Rivaini,” Tethras smiled but shook his head, “I’m staying here in Kirkwall.”

“Bugger that,” the Rivaini captain made a rude gesture toward the still sluggishly smoking, partially burning city, “There won’t be much of the Hanged Man left, Varric. You can’t go back there. It’s not safe!”

The Dwarf looked at the dark woman reproachfully, “Since when have I played it safe?”

A thud that shook the deck under their feet, a curse, as Hawke’s bearded face appeared through the hatch from below decks, “What, Varric? Are you trying to get Isabela to place a bet again? Surely she knows better by now.”

Their friend stretched, catlike from her place at the rails, “Varric is trying to tell me he’s not coming with us.”

The big Fereldan hauled himself onto the wooden deck, and looming over the Dwarf, his voice that of a boy who has lost his puppy, “You’re not coming with us? Why?”

“Oh! Varric?” came Merrill’s clear tones as she climbed up after her lover, “You’re staying here? Why?”

“This is my home, Daisy,” Varric was gentle, “I don’t belong anywhere else. I might travel Thedas eventually, visit Bartrand in Orzammar, but Kirkwall is home. Besides, I won’t be alone.”

“No,” Aveline spoke loudly and clearly, very much Captain of the Guard as she marched up the gangway, “Donnic and I, our place is here. We have a job to do. We are not going anywhere. Sorry, Hawke.”

Isabela turned from where she stood at the railing. Pointedly staring at the Docks in flame, at the smoke rising from Low and High towns, blocks of stone pulled from the city walls. “Big Girl, you’re going to rebuild Kirkwall? That’s an awfully big task.”

“I won’t be rebuilding it,” Aveline’s normally brash voice was assertive, “but I will be there to guard over those who do.”

Donnic Hendyr gave Hawke a clap on the back, “We understand why you are leaving. But for us, our place is here. We will raise our family here. As for associations? Practically everyone of note in the city has had dealings with you, Hawke. No one will look twice at Aveline and me.”

Down below decks in the cabins, Anders was staring at the rather large bunk in the Captains’. His throat got cleared nervously, “You have me assigned here? With you and Isabela?”

Fenris was removing his armor, piece by sharp and pointy piece, racking it before slotting the wooden cover over the cupboard. Next the Mercy Blade was fitted into storage under the bed. Fenris had already placed Isabela’s blades there. “You can rack your staff by the door, Anders,” the deep voice of the Elvhen went on, “You’re more likely to need it if someone gets hurt in the course of the voyage.”

“Do you have any idea where we are going, Fenris? Or have Isabela and Hawke left you out of the planning as well?” Anders was still looking at the bed. It was monstrous for a shipboard bunk, but with three people in it. Or would they all be sleeping at the same time? Perhaps the crew had shifts, as they’d done in the Circle.

“Your own fault for telling Hawke you ‘don’t like planning’. He’s perfectly happy to take advantage of that lapse of judgement to make your decisions for you,” grumbled the white haired elf.

“This is a lot more light than I was expecting,” Anders found himself going for stream of consciousness rather than poking at the elephant in the room.

Fenris came to stand beside him, and they both looked out the large ports, framed on the inside and out by wooden shutters. “I believe those will be closed in the event of high seas, Anders. This may be only as light as we make it after that. Isabela has lanterns to fit into those brackets. 

Anders watched the light shift as the reflections of the water around them shone against the wood of the room, listening he could hear the curses of a ship’s crew nearby as they struggled to take place of precedence in the line of ships leaving the harbor. “I always thought that ships’ crews slept in hammocks,” he heard himself commenting.

“The crew does,” was the response, “And Isabela has promised to show us some inventive ways to use hammocks. Would you like to see your office?”

Surprised, the Healer Mage turned and looked down at the tattooed fighter. “I,” what does one say to that, “have an office? On Isabela’s ship?”

Fenris was watching him, head cocked, then gave that small, dry smile and led the way out into the tiny corridor. “Hawke’s and Merrill’s room,” the door was open as they passed and the deep voice intoned. Anders could see Hawke’s dog lying completely spread on a smaller bunk than the one in the room they’d just left, “The mess,” these were alternating sides of the way, “Bethany’s cabin, Sebastian’s and Varric’s cabin, Aveline’s and Donnic’s.” They went down the short ladderlike steps to the crews’ quarters. There were, indeed, hammocks slung from hooks in the rafters. Fenris did not need to duck his head to walk, but Anders knocked himself slightly silly before catching on the knack of walking bent enough to avoid the bits of low hanging structure. They avoided sailors going about the business of getting the ship ready for their travels.

There were small rooms set about, one of which Fenris nodded to as "Elthina's cabin", the galley, stores, and a less tiny square with a bunk, a large table, a desk and chair. There was barely room to work, but cabinets were set around the room, drawers under the bunk, and the boxes of potions and equipment Hawke had brought up from the Clinic were resting on the boards of the bunk, the straw mattress rolled up at the head of the space. 

Anders himself, lean as he was, filled the space, which the mage lit with a flicker of his hand. A single porthole, closed tight, was set in the wall. “A surgery?” he asked, before looking over to the elf, leaning effortlessly in the doorway.

Fenris nodded. He was watching for reaction, as Isabela would ask. This was small, miniscule, actually, but the Captain had insisted and planned with her first mate to put this together.

“I don’t understand,” the tenor caught, “this looks,” significant pause for thought, “permanent.”

“I believe Isabela means it to be,” Fenris stated.

Anders shook his head, “Fenris, Isabela can’t believe we’re going to sail around as one big happy family. How long do you think it will be before the Templars and the Divine come after us? Even if they never come after me, Hawke’s known. He fought against Meredith at the Gallows. The Divine will never allow that to stand, nor the Templar Order. They’ll send the Seekers after him.

And he can’t fight with that two handed sword on a wooden vessel this size. I can’t throw fireballs for that matter.”

Fenris shook that beautiful head, straight soft hair flying, “Then you’d best learn to fight without those.”

Anders blinked. “Just because I am exceptionally stupid today. After all that fighting and trauma and all. You and Isabela are inviting me into your bed. To live with you on this ship.”

“Yes,” deep and amused.

“For how long?” an incredulous question.

Still amused, “For as long as you care to ship with us.”

‘And,” Anders almost asked if they were heading to Tevinter. Isabela had told him once that while she was not going to bear children, she had plans to rescue the children Fenris had sired from a life of slavery in the land of the Black Divine. It was possible that she had not discussed this with Fenris, though she’d only brought it up once to Anders. Better to keep his mouth firmly shut.

Clamping his admittedly big mouth closed, the known criminal and wanted mage, Anders former of the Kinloch Circle, also a Grey Warden, gave a nod of acquiescence to the odd elf that he would be accompanying as Fenris and his lover sailed the seas of Thedas.

When they climbed the ladder to the main deck, the entire set of Hawke’s companions were standing, leaning, sitting up in the small space surrounding the wheel. Hawke was awkwardly seated on a bale of cargo, with Merrill climbing about in the rigging above the group. Aveline and Donnic stood, still dressed in their Kirkwall Guard livery, while Bethany was sitting on a crate off to the side, also still dressed in her Circle robes. Varric and Bianca were leaning against the rail to the side. Sebastian in his white Andrastean armor had joined them, but they saw no sign of the Grand Cleric. Isabela was ranting in the center, “I provided you with the escape, Hawke, and now these ingrates tell me they’re not going with us?”

“Who?” it was out of Anders’ mouth before they had noticed his and Fenris’ arrival, “Who is mad enough to be staying there?” and his hand flared out toward the destroyed city.

Hawk stood up, “Anders! Fenris! All stowed away downstairs?”

Anders realized that Fenris was the only one of them who was not in his armor or uniform. Even Anders was still wearing the clothing he’d fought in. Reaching up to unhook the pauldrons he removed them and dropped them to the deck, then skinned the Tevinter robes beneath over his head and dropped those, leaving the mage dressed in a thin undershirt and breeches tucked into his boots. Giving the pile a kick to shift it behind the hatch cover he asked again, “Who is staying in Kirkwall?”

“I am, for one, Anders,” Sebastian gave him a fond smile, “Her Grace is staying, and I remain with her. There will be plenty of work to rebuild the City.”

A nod of approval from Fenris, but Anders gave a snort, “Is there a Chantry for Elthina to stay for?”

“It is not the building that makes the Chantry, Anders, it is the flock who share the Song of Andraste and the Maker,” Sebastian’s eyes gleamed at the thought.

“Donnic and I will stay,” Aveline squared her shoulders, “The guard needs the structure we can provide. I don’t think that sailing off into the sunset is the right ending to our story.”

Varric laughed, “This story may be ending, Aveline, the story of The Champion of Kirkwall against Mad Meredith, but it doesn’t mean the finish to our lives. There are other stories.”

Aveline looked at him first, then lifted her eyes to Hawke’s, “And mine will continue here in Kirkwall. I’m sorry Hawke. You’re family. But I choose to stay here with Donnic.”

Donnic smiled and took her hand, “And I choose to stay here with Aveline.”

Hawke nodded, “It is not as though you need my permission. Any of you. I just would like to think of you all safe and happy.” His bearded face, those faded blue Fereldan eyes, were sad though.

“Hawke!” Varric laughed, “So noble! Of course your approval is good. It won’t change a thing if we don’t get it. We’re still staying, but it would make Aveline feel better, for one.”

“What happened to your decision to publish the Authorized Biography of the Champion of Kirkwall, Varric?” Hawke’s sarcasm was gentle.

“Just have to be unauthorized, I guess,” the Dwarf was still laughing. “Imagine the tourist traffic! Kirkwall, once home to the Champion, now site of the great and glorious battle against the evil of magical and Templar corruption!”

“Varric is leaving as well?” Fenris asked.

“Broody, I can’t leave the Hanged Man! You and the Rivaini and Blondie there, you don’t have ties. You can go where you wish. Hawke and Daisy, they’ll need to find a place to settle down sometime, but it doesn’t have to be now.

Me? I have the Merchants’ Guild to watch while they’re rebuilding, and a whole set of new eyes to put in place. I’ll gather my stories from Hawke’s Mansion, if it survived, and keep my palatial suite at the Hanged Man for business conferences. It that survives and all. But don’t worry about me. You’ll still be hearing my name. So many stories to be told!” Varric Tethras’ voice was eloquent in its enthusiasm. 

“Bethany?” Anders asked it gently, “Do you want to stay as well?”

Hawke’s grumble was quieted by Merrill’s small, scarred hand on his lips from where she hung upside down in the rigging. Bethany looked up smiling at being asked. “Part of me would love to stay here. To help Cullen, excuse me, Acting Commander Cullen, rebuild the Circle. 

But I think,” and here she looked out over the harbor to where the destroyed statues could still be seen through the gates of the Gallows, “That it will be much harder for me to stay. They’ll be looking for Gareth, and I don’t want them to find me instead.”

Hawke had a thoughtful look, “I guess this time it’s turnabout that’s fair play. We're not running because you're a mage. It's because I'm who I am. I hate to think of taking you away from teaching, Bethie. But I don’t want to leave you here in the Gallows, even if Meredith is gone.”

Bethany’s eyes were still on the Gallows while she absently told them, “A school. If the Circle were as it should be. A university eventually, but someplace to study. Someplace for children to learn to use the powers the Maker gave them. Templars and mages together. Imagine what we could do if the foundations of Kirkwall were studied!”

Anders opened his mouth to allow the sarcastic comment regarding Templars and mages working together at all to escape when he heard the deep voice of the Elvhen at his side. “A pretty dream, Bethany. How do you propose to prevent this,” a dark skinned arm decorated with lyrium gestured toward the shambled ruin of the Gallows.

Bethany’s grin was reminiscent of her brother’s. “By treating Mages like people, Fenris. By giving them something to fight for against blood magic and the abuse of power.” The woman sounded like her brother, calling them all to battle.

Anders felt the warmth growing in his chest. He was surprised, but he certainly should not be. Bethany was a Hawke, just as her brother was. Perhaps her dream could come to fruition if there were mages willing to spend their lives to make this a reality. Was Bethany the one who would lead them all to the way life should be for Mages? Wonder lit his face.

Hawke looked from Bethany to Anders. Hope, some measure of understanding on the older mage’s face. Quiet intent on hers. Hmmm. He would have to watch that. Working toward a goal was one thing. Gaining a brother in law was entirely another. There was a measuring look on Fenris’ face as well. The two of them, then, to make sure that Anders behaved himself.

When the Siren’s Call cleared the Twins, the tormented slave statues in Kirkwall’s harbor, it carried four fewer than Captain Isabela had planned, but as she watched the city disappear from the bow, her arm curved around Fenris’ waist, the Rivaini was content. Whatever the future contained, she had given them all a chance at something new.

Fenris relaxed into Isabela’s arm. Mages, stuck on a wooden ship with three mages, two of whom threw balls of fire. What had he gotten into now? 

Hawke and Merrill perched on a cargo hatch, an odd couple, large and small, trying to stay out of the path of busy sailors, discussing possibilities. 

Anders leaned over the figurehead of the Siren, her arms reaching forward to tempt sailors to their doom, watching the future, and playing with a small colored bit of lightning darting from hand to hand. This time he was not running away, so much as running forward. It was a disconcerting feeling.

Bethany Hawke came up on deck into the dusk. There was her brother, canoodling with Merrill as usual. In the back Fenris was sharing a kiss with Isabela. Forward was Anders. Rumor had it that the mage had been quite something back in his Circle days. Hmmm. An arm encircled her shoulders, “Bethie! Come and join us over HERE.”

Ah well. It was going to be an interesting voyage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


End file.
